Gate: American Expedition
by Deadlined
Summary: The Gate opens in the busy streets of Los Angeles. In response to the violent invasion, the United States sends an expeditionary force beyond the portal to secure the safety of her citizens.
1. Sloppy Joe Hill

Chaos.

Men ran rampant through the streets of Los Angeles, stabbing and cutting through swathes of civilians. Men in ancient-looking armor, more suited for medieval times with weapons to match, were streaming through a gigantic marble arch that had appeared in the middle of a busy road.

Resistance was slight and ineffective. Although many had firearms, the civilians were caught off-guard and too disorganized to hold off any enemy offensive. Families were forced to flee, a handgun or rifle only able to hold them at bay long enough to escape the immediate danger.

Fantastical creatures had appeared, flying through the sky carrying daredevil riders with long spears or bows. Dragons, gryphons, and pegasuses harassed and corralled the panicked citizens into dead ends where the infantry could have their way.

That was, until the National Guard showed up.

Ryan Warren steered through the crowded street, making sure not to hit anything. Few people were in the street, having fled or found decent enough hiding places. Like him, anyone with a car had attempted to flee already. Major highways were becoming blocked up but with the omnidirectional movement they were steady moving. Many others, like himself, had opted for smaller roads, avoiding much of the traffic.

His wife next to him, his young son in the back, he figured things were going rather smoothly.

Driving down onto a larger road, it was then that he saw the presence of desert-colored trucks with large machine guns mounted to the tops heading in the opposite direction, towards the center of the city. The column was stopped, one man outside emptying fuel cans into the truck and the others waiting on edge in the vehicle itself.

He pulled over into the shoulder of the road, slowing to a stop, and rolled down his window.

"Hey!" he said, "You guys need help?"

The fueler, with the patch of a National Guard unit, waved him off. "No, sir, just get your family to safety."

"I'm National Guard," Ryan said. He reached into his pocket and produced his wallet, showing his military-issued ID to him.

"Where's your unit?" the guardsman asked. Next to him, the vehicle commander opened his door to join in on the conversation.

"Auburn," Ryan answered.

"Shit," the vehicle commander said. "Well, it's not like we have extra equipment."

"I'm sure there's something I can help with," Ryan argued. He didn't look to her, but he could feel the daggers his wife was stabbing into the back of his head with her eyes. "You can always use an extra man."

The vehicle commander leaned into the Humvee and grabbed for the radio handset, explaining the situation to the platoon leader. After a few seconds, he turned back to Ryan.

"Alright," he said. "Just let me see your card."

Butterflies in his stomach, Ryan stepped out of his car and handed the ID to the guardsman.

"Ryan!" he heard from behind him. "What the hell are you doing!?"

He turned to his wife. "Honey, I'm going to join up with my unit anyway. I might as well get started now when they really need people. Just take Michael to the house."

His wife quieted down and wiped the wetness from her eyes. She did marry into the military after all, and she had already accepted that fact. She got out of the car and walked around to the front, giving her husband a tight hug, which he returned.

"Alright," she said. "I know what I got into. Just be safe, ok?"

"Ok," he said. "Just get a few hours away, alright?"

She nodded her head, gave him a quick peck on his cheek, and climbed into the driver seat of the car. She gave him a final wave as she merged back into traffic and disappeared into the mass of vehicles. The last thing Ryan saw was the face of his son looking out the rear window at him.

"Why are you down here if you're based in Auburn anyway?" one of the guardsmen asked.

"Visiting family," Ryan answered. "They took off in their own car."

The vehicle commander reached into the shoulder pocket of his jacket. "Here, before the .50 blows your ears out," he said, throwing him a small box of disposable foam earplugs.

Ryan nodded his thanks and climbed into the Humvee which, having only four inside, had an extra seat in the rear.

Ryan finally began to recognize some sense of a perimeter in the counter-offensive. The enemy were on the run now, over the bodies of their dead strewn across the streets of the city. Unrelenting fire from the guardsmen and .50 caliber machine guns cut down the isolated and demoralized enemy in seconds, although to Ryan it felt like minutes.

To him, the movement of the guardsmen throughout the city did not seem to have any forethought, simply moving street to street and waiting for instructions. It was effective, however, and easily cut down the resistance they faced. Even the mounted riders were little trouble. Enough small arms fire took most down easily enough, and the force of the .50 BMG was often sufficient to tear the creature and riders into pieces.

There simply weren't enough targets for all them men with rifles. One enemy soldier would try to dash across a street and six or seven rifles immediately snapped to him, two or three hitting center mass with the first couple of shots.

He had delegated himself to the wounded civilians at his feet. He, with the help of another couple of guardsmen, was feeling through the casualties, bringing the wounded and dying to an FMTV laden with medical supplies, surrounded by overworked yet diligent medics and doctors. He and his partner picked up a young woman who had a large slice through her thigh and a wound in her abdomen. He kicked away the gauntlet-clad hand of another enemy soldier that reached for his leg. It wasn't that he was ignoring the wounded of the enemy, but his own countrymen had priority to him.

The gunfire had stopped by then. After a stone-faced medic had settled down the woman he was carrying, he slumped down on an overturned trash can. After slowing down, he could hardly breathe. He wasn't thinking it at the time but he had been hauling bodies for hours for hundreds of combined yards. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt, which he noticed was covered in blood. Which of the dozens of wounded he recovered it belonged to he couldn't tell; all he was certain of was that it wasn't his. He let his eyes close, resting his face in his hands. The fingers of sleep tugged at his mind. For once in his military career, he didn't resist.

He was woken with a tap on his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open and itched his hair with his hands, waking himself up. He looked to the source of the disturbance to find a young guardsman there, too young it looked to even be shaving. His uniform was clean save for dirty stains around the knees and his boots, and most prevalently, a large blood splattering across his FLC which spread up across his neck and onto the side of his face to his left ear.

"Hey, you alright, sir?" the boy asked.

Ryan noticed the patch on his left shoulder, a diagonally two-tone near rectangle with a black lightning bolt superimposed over it.

"It's Sergeant," he said. "What company are you?"

"Charlie One Seventy-Nine, Sergeant," the guardsman answered.

Ryan waved him off. "Quit with the 'Sergeant' shit," he said. "Unless you want me to call you Private every sentence, too,"

"I'm good."

"Alright. I'm also in Charlie. I need to talk with the CO."

"Wait, Sergeant Warren?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, nodding.

"First platoon, right? I heard a couple guys from First complaining about a Sergeant who wanted to 'go play Rambo' or some shit."

"Ok," Ryan said, "well can you get me to the captain?"

"Yeah," the guardsman answered. "Yeah, I can do that."

* * *

Ryan Warren stood at attention for the man who, in his humble opinion, was the epitome of not giving worth a damn. The blousing bands alone were not a sign, but combined with his hands being constantly in his pockets, the slight shadow he had no matter the time of day, and the almost messy haircut he sported, it was obvious to anyone. He was a good troop leader, Ryan felt, but not a stickler for anything he did not deem important.

"Sir," he said, standing at attention. Around the command room, before that utterly abandoned, before that the food court of a mini-mall, buzzed the headquarters platoon of the unit, ferrying papers back and forth and setting work spaces for the officers and senior sergeants.

"Sergeant."

"Sir?"

"Sergeant."

"Uh, I got here," Ryan said.

"Warren, right?"

Ryan nodded his head.

"Alright. Your gear's in the corner over there. We snipped your lock, by the way," he said.

Ryan replied with a "yes, sir" under his breath and jogged to the pile of gray-blue camouflaged gear. Everything he needed was there, albeit with no changes of clothing in case something was ruined. He grabbed the pile and made for the nearest restroom and quickly donned his uniform. He took the camelback and filled it with one of the restroom's faucets before clipping it to the back of his vest. He donned the vest and stepped back into the makeshift command center.

He quickly found his platoon leader. "Sir? Was my rifle brought?"

The lieutenant nodded and pointed out one of the doors. "Yeah. On an LMTV. We grabbed all the rifles in the arms room."

"Roger," Ryan replied before heading out the door. The private guarding the truck climbed inside the back and produced a rifle matching the serial number Ryan gave to him. Ryan double checked it and slung it over his shoulder. The private turned back into the vehicle and found a seat.

Ryan turned around and headed back to his platoon leader. The officer, a short man with a clean shave and well-fitting uniform, was in a discussion with several NCOs, each writing down notes on small pads of paper. Ryan changed his direction towards the group of guardsmen nearby, who were standing or sitting on whatever they could find. Each looked exhausted, both physically and mentally, and didn't react to his approach. He found his squad filling their canteens and camelbacks from an orange water cooler.

"Hey," he said, "did I miss anything?"

* * *

 **The next day**

* * *

They were a magnificent sight, yet Ryan had to hold in the burning, sickening sensation in his gut. Since the incident, the Gate (as it had been called) had been quiet, albeit under heavy guard by his battalion. Lined up outside were the men of some Marine unit, their LAV-25s in neat rows, ready to head into the gate. Behind them, the Amphibious Assault Vehicles carrying standard infantry squads, and behind them, the men of the 101st Airborne Division in high-backed Humvees. Behind them, staged on HEMTTs, were attack and transportation helicopters, although not ready in the convoy.

Around them in hundreds, reporters from various networks, both local and national, both American and foreign. In the thousands were mourning locals, cheering on the troops as if this expedition could bring back the dead and heal the wounded.

He could barely stand to look at them, however. It was his home that was attacked, his family endangered. Yet he and his unit were being shafted to home-side sentry duty. His stomach churned.

* * *

The area beyond the Gate was black. It was not in the sense of the absence of light, for Sergeant Allen of Alpha Company, First Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion of the First Marine Division, could see his fellow vehicles clear as day. It was the ground itself that was blacker than a new moon's night. The sky, if it could be called that, as well was an identical color. To call it a shade would give it too much credit, Allen thought. There was no discernment between the sky and the ground. Simple emptiness that the battalion seemed to glide on upon a common geometric plane. He was almost fearful of exiting his LAV-25 for fear of falling through whatever surface bore the armored force.

It was like how photos showed the Moon to be. Difference between light and dark was immediate. As the column rode farther away from the abyss' end of the Gate, harsh shadows were born by the vehicles as those behind them blocked the Gate's light. He was tempted to call for headlights to be turned on, but a quick view through the thermal sights of his vehicle produced favorable results.

"Platoon, pick up a line, 100 meter interval," he heard over the radio.

"Driver, did you hear that?" he asked over the intercom.

"No, what?" came the reply.

Allen checked the thermals to see the positioning of the other vehicles. "Go to the right of the guys in front of us. We're hitting a 100 meter interval."

"Roger," his driver answered.

The vehicle turned slightly, gradually increasing the interval as the platoon covered ground. Eventually, Allen was forced to use his thermal sight to gauge his position among the formation. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that he heard a "halt" on the net. He called his driver to a stop and began scanning.

"Unknown contact, dead ahead," he heard. "Tons of 'em. I think I see the opposite Gate, too."

"I see them too," Allen said, trying his best to discern their forms. He couldn't see any weapons on them, however, but then again he was using a rather crude thermal sight at long range. The nature of the environment helped, however, as any source of heat was a stark contrast from the ground surface. "Permission to engage?"

"Hold on," the lieutenant replied. After minute the comm unit crackled. "I see weapons and those big-ass dragon things. Hit the big stuff first. Clear to engage."

Allen let out a slight smile. "Fuck 'em up."

The 25mm autocannon on his vehicle opened up, soon followed by that of the other vehicles. He watched the results on his sight. Projectiles ripped into the far-off bodies, sending limbs and showers of blood everywhere. The enemy soldiers were packed together, allowing even small bursts to kill or wound large groups of men. Several of the beasts tried to take flight, but they were similarly vulnerable and were quickly cut down with their infantry counterparts.

The platoon leader came on the net. "Cease fire, cease fire."

Allen's gunner did so, letting the 25mm cannon slowly cool itself off as wisps of water vapor and smoke rose from the exposed barrel.

"Bravo, hold back. Alpha is going in. We'll follow," the platoon leader said after a minute's hesitation. "An infantry platoon will go in after that."

* * *

The smell of fresh air slowly wafted through the open hatch above Sergeant Allen. He reached for the edges and slowly pulled himself up. It was night out, and the headlights of the LAV-25s cast softer shadows around him, signifying a definite change of environment from the desolate Gate. To him, the environment looked no different from the woodland he was used to. The area around the Gate structure was tall, unkempt grass, while a hundred yards or so down hill lay a sparse forest.

Something was not right.

He got back down into the turret and looked through the thermal sights. His heart nearly skipped a beat. Throughout the grass was dozens, perhaps hundreds, of heat signatures lying in wait, starting roughly half way to the woods. He keyed the mic on his helmet. "Sir, check your thermals! I've got guys in the grass!"

"Shit," the lieutenant replied. "Platoon, get on line. Gunners, don't fire yet."

Allen relayed the orders to his crew and the vehicle slowly moved into place. They were rather well-hidden, as Allen could not spot them through the standard sights, and even the thermals were disrupted by the cold grass obscuring their forms.

Within the treeline, Allen saw a black, cold signature form several meters from the ground. As he zoomed in, trying to discern exactly what it was, it blasted away, heading straight for one of the vehicles of his section.

Allen felt it rather than heard it, the reverberations drumming through his vehicles hull, kicking up dust in a similar manner as an Abrams' cannon. He looked out through the periscope just as the struck vehicle's forward wheels regained contact with the ground. One of the forward wheels fell away from the LAV-25, its scorched form slumping to one side from the loss of support.

"Gunner, open up!" he screamed, trying to make sense of the situation. "I don't care at what; just fuck something up!"

That was no missile. If he were in Afghanistan, he wouldn't be so shocked. The Taliban had hundreds if not thousands of cheap rockets and missiles left over from previous wars. Them, he could deal with. Allen just had no idea how a supposedly medieval army produced a weapon with destructiveness similar to that of a guided missile. He kept watching through the periscope as the scouts exited through the rear ramp, rifles up as they sought cover. Thankfully, there was no fire, and all of the Marines appeared uninjured. The turret began to fire, giving Allen the impression that damage was limited to the front of the vehicle only.

Suddenly another vehicle was struck similarly on the side, and this time the turret was disabled. Allen looked to the treeline to where he saw the cold, floating ball earlier.

"Gunner," he called, bringing the mic closer to his mouth for clarity. "Treeline. Look through the thermals for a black floating ball. I think that's what's killing us."

By then, most of the enemy infantry throughout the grass had either retreated or been grievously injured by the 25mm autocannons, and infantry-carrying AAVs had begun emerging from the Gate. They began to form a semi-circular perimeter around the front of the Gate, pushing out past the LAV-25s. Infantry then emerged from the vehicles, rifles up and downrange, and began to form a perimeter themselves. A couple mortar teams began securing their tubes, and machine gunners were in the process of finding open sightlines where their weapons would be most effective.

* * *

The AAVs, large boat-shaped tracked vehicles each carrying a squad of riflemen, began to push towards the perimeter, firing their Mk. 19 automatic grenade launchers as they went. The enemy fire finally began to die down, and the riflemen pushed forwards out of cover. Captain Pelsc, commander of Alpha Company, First Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, moved forwards with his dismounted men, rifle in hand. His men took up positions in the tall grass, firing at any movement in the now-sparse trees beyond. The rest of the AAVs belonging to Bravo Company, First Battalion, First Marines crept up to his men's outer perimeter and the troops inside dismounted.

The troops cautiously moved towards the edge of the forest. This was perhaps the most dangerous part of the assault, he thought, as the large weaponry utilized by their vehicles could not be used for fear of friendly fire.

What happened next came to no surprise to him. Swordsmen popped from the ground, from behind trees, from the few treetops, and even from behind the bodies of fallen monsters. The Marines were outnumbered and outskilled, but made up for it in ferocity and technology, shooting and bayoneting their way through back to the perimeter. In the dark, Pelc's men couldn't fire accurately and maintained fire discipline. The surviving enemy were nearly overwhelming, however, and men not engaged with the forward riflemen began to desperately charge up towards his line.

"Bayonets!" Pelsc yelled, attaching his own, before leveling the rifle and getting a few shots off before the first man reached him. He parried the sword blow with his bayonet, swinging to smack the man in the jaw with his stock. He shot the man in the chest and moved to the next target. Men around him preformed similar, holding off the quickly dwindling push.

It was obvious to him the battle was over. A last act of defiance against impossible odds, swordsmen charged bravely yet were cut down by rifle fire. Although they stood a fair chance against the Marines in terms of close quarter skills, Pelsc's men were able to increase distance enough to use their rifles. Eventually, enemy manpower ran out, and after the last rounds were fired, a small breeze blew through the hill. The scent it him hard. He hadn't noticed it before, but the smell of dead men and gunpowder was nearly too much. He held his composure for his men, however, and began directing medical details to gather the wounded and count the dead.

The sun was beginning to show beyond the horizon. He could make out a great forest in the distance, vast mountain ranges flanking on either side. It was a picturesque sight yet he couldn't enjoy it. He took off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes with his sleeve, before slicking his hair back and replacing his helmet.

Something in the distance caught his eye. He thought it was a trick of the light at first, but reached into a pouch for binoculars.

His stomach sank.

Torches. Hundreds of them. Tall, building-sized monsters. Ogres and dragon mounts. Catapults and cavalry.

The sight kept his attention for several minutes as he studied every detail, trying to come up with a plan for his exhausted men to carry out in a desperate, ditched defense. It wasn't until a tap on his shoulder that he diverted his attention. It was his executive officer, Lieutenant Sheere.

"Sir, the tanks are through."


	2. The Village

A/N

Faust: Thanks for the in-depth review. I see your point, but I jumped right into it to give a sense of urgency for the characters (OH SHIT gotta go move, no time to prepare), and honestly I don't have the patience/endurance to go write up pure characterization. I do what I can to give a sense of personality within scenes, but when I start writing things outside of plot advancement my writing just grinds to a halt and the chapter takes months to write. Oh, and especially with the snippet at the end, we're going to see "how another branch operates on a more in depth level."

Mcrae: While true, a large part of this is that America is still vulnerable after 15 years of war. We keep terrorists off our back after spending thousands of lives and trillions of dollars, and then some assholes come in and massacre civilians for the hell of it. As well as that even with 9/11, this was an attack by a 'conventional' force in a (failed) attempt to take and hold ground which the public has not experienced for over 100 years.

* * *

 **"Sloppy Joe Hill"**

"Jesus," Lieutenant Davis muttered under his breath. The effect of the tanks upon the enemy was devastating. There were few discernible bodies that were in a recognizable shape. They were shredded. There was more blackish-red than there was green grass. Limbs and shredded torsos littered the plains around the hill. The force sent to attack his unit was ineffective: small, poorly led, and hastily pieced together and planned. It was a mad rush to the hill before the tanks had found their sightlines. Canister rounds of over a thousand tungsten balls each were fired one after another, killing or crippling dozens of men in instants. Those not killed by the canisters were killed by the 81mm mortars.

Half of an army lay dead before Davis. The scale of death and suffering was incomprehensible to him. The casualties of the beaches of Iwo Jima were wrought in minutes.

Unfortunately, that meant that the tanks were out of ammunition. Or nearly, he assumed. He hadn't seen any logistical vehicles bringing honeycombs of tank rounds. Their defense against another attack relied on the machine guns and mortars around him. Perhaps the tanks still had a few explosive rounds that could be used against those large monsters. He hoped.

The sound of Sergeant Allen brought his attention back. "Hey, sir, look. More."

Davis squinted his eyes, looking out towards the western horizon. Another army. Another _enemy_ army. Although logpack had brought more munitions for his vehicles and infantry, to include mortars and machine guns, this did not include the tanks. The tanks were in the forefront of their perimeter. Should friendly fire occur, a 7.62mm round would to little against its armor. A canister round, or its casing, would have a much larger impact against a grounded infantry squad to say the least. The 360 degree perimeter was also advanced much farther than it had been last night, giving plenty of room for maneuver. Should retreat be necessary for the tanks, there was little fear of the infantry earning their tanker nickname of "crunchy".

As the enemy column drew closer, they dispersed into battle formations. They maintained marching order, however, moving in neat blocks that reminded him of the Romans of old. In fact, the individual swordsmen themselves reminded him. The ones he fought the previous night had appeared to be Roman soldiers with a medieval twist, designed by some random civilian with no familiarity with the culture he was presenting or its history.

The enemy army squared up, but did not move towards his position. As he looked closer, they seemed to be at odds with his previous observation. "They don't look like the first guys did," Davis said. Allen looked over at his soldier and saw him peering through a set of binoculars.

Allen nudged him on the shoulder, motioning for permission to use them. Davis handed him the optics. As Allen looked through, he noticed the lack of uniformity between the formations. Some formations, he noticed, hardly had uniformity even among themselves. "Yeah," he agreed. "Vassals? Or Auxiliaries or some shit."

No later than he said that did a small group head forwards of the army. He watched them try to avoid the blood, gore, and bodies, but it soon proved impossible. The liberal use of canister rounds had ensured that. Through the binoculars, it looked like a muddy field after a rainstorm. The ground, softened by the blood and impact of munitions, had sucked in the hooves of the horses and made their trot slow and awkward.

As he adjusted his sight, he noticed a humvee leave the perimeter, slowly making its way to the horsemen. Although the wheels occasionally slipped or lost traction, it had a noticeably easier time than the horses.

* * *

Captain Pelc eyed the horsemen with suspicion from his passenger seat in the humvee. They were obviously the enemy general and his staff, or at least representatives. "Keep that fifty on them," he ordered. Before exiting the vehicle, he pulled back on the bolt of his rifle slightly, ensuring a round was chambered. He snapped closed the dust cover and stepped out. The two in the rear passenger seats followed, keeping their weapons at the low ready.

"What are they saying?" one of his Marines asked. Pelc stayed silent and relaxed his posture, not trying to aggravate the horsemen. He kept both hands on his weapon, however.

The horseman in front had an imposing posture, he admitted, clad in thick, red plate armor. A white plume on top his helmet moved in the breeze, and the man looked down the Marine, literally and figuratively, whose boots were muddied and bloodied, pressing down half an inch into the earth.

"Adam Pelc," Pelc said, motioning to his chest. Perhaps names were a good place to start.

The man likewise motioned to himself. "Duran."

Pelc considered it pointless to try and communicate verbally. For now, there was no way past the language barrier. He wasn't going to have a week long session with enemy combatants trying to understand each other. He was here to kill them. Or, at least, keep them off the hill.

Going for a wordless approach, he simply bent over and picked up a shredded arm. He held it out in front of him, in plain view of Duran, and held up his rifle with his other hand. He then pointed to the hill, where his Marines were, and at the ground, where the corpses of hundreds if not thousands of men lay. He then pointed at the horsemen. More specifically, at Duran.

* * *

"Oh shit," Allen muttered under his breath. "Ha, fuckin' Christ that's hilarious."

"Huh?" Davis asked, turning to his lieutenant.

"CO just told King Jackoff he's fucked," he informed. As he kept watching, the horsemen briskly turned around and headed back to their line. Captain Pelc likewise remounted his vehicle, heading back towards the hill. A few minutes later he arrived at the command post. As the commander exited and stepped inside the tent, Allen handed the binoculars back to Davis as the platoon leader went towards the tent himself.

* * *

Night time was beautiful here, Allen thought. No light pollution. No noise pollution. He could clearly see the stars of the alien world. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't. He was inside the turret of his LAV-25, looking through the thermal sights out towards the horizon. The forest was destroyed for hundreds of meters, just jagged tree stumps and fallen trunks to make up the terrain. Luckily the wind was behind him, blowing the stench of the previous day's battle away from him.

The tankers and LAV-25 crews had set up a perimeter around the center of the hill and were manning night watch, one man on each crew being up to monitor the radio and thermals. Throughout the night engines roared as they started up, charging the batteries of the vehicles, before shutting off to save gas. The infantry had dug hasty positions, just deep enough to hide them from view. A squad at a time maintained guard in their sectors. Across the hill, each man was getting around three-hour blocks of sleep.

It was minutes until the end of his shift, eyelids dropping, that he saw a massive signature surface a kilometer out. It stayed in one place, clearly staging itself. Unfortunately for them, that was easily within range of the tanks. Not their deadly canister rounds, but high explosives would ruin their day.

"Hey, Childs! Wake up," he called to the driver. "Start it up."

On his command, the engine started, puffing out black smoke before roaring to life.

Allen turned to the side to make sure he was on the company net. He pressed the button of his Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet in. "Arrow Six, this is Three Two Golf. Enemy spotted, one klick, west. I see two block formations, staging for an attack. Over."

"Three Two Golf this is Arrow Six, copy all. Continue to observe. Over."

"Roger, out," Allen finished. By then the crew was awake, getting out of their sleeping bags or stuffing their field blankets back into assault packs. Though the open hatch above him he heard the whine of tank engines starting and the grumble of other LAVs.

"All stations on this net, this is Professional Six. Do not engage. Inform when the enemy force is within rifle range. Over."

Over the net, Allen heard the commanders of the various elements of the 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit call off their recognition of the order. At least, the ones that had passed through the Gate by then. Even without a full amount of tank munitions, two platoons of LAV-25s, a company of AAV-mounted infantry, mortars, and heavy machine guns were a force to be reckoned with.

It took nearly half an hour for the enemy to approach. They were slow and, judging from the shape of thermal signatures, had no torches to guide them. Allen had to give them some credit; they were at least trying to think and not just charging in broad daylight. The two formations had formed a line, with one in reserve, and several diamonds of cavalry on the flanks. Some real Alexander the Great shit, he thought.

As soon as the riflemen made to to 300 meters of the perimeter, however, the call was made over radio, an all hell broke loose. All weapons opened fire. Machine guns and rifles cut down the first ranks. Mortars devastated the next, and the two tanks that had sectors on this area were unleashing fire from their three machine guns each.

The radio crackled to life. "Professional X-Ray, this is One Four Golf. 5 blocks of infantry, 3 blocks cavalry approaching from the trees. Over."

"This is Professional X-Ray, roger. Same plan. Rifle range, then all weapons. Your discretion, over."

"This is One Four Actual. Roger, out."

"So they're not plain retarded," Allen said to his crew. Their sister platoon, managing the opposite sector of them, were dealing with a much larger force. The men his platoon was slaughtering, which had to be at least two thousand men, was merely a diversion. They were attempting a sneak attack, concealed by the destroyed forest. Unluckily for them, thermal imaging existed.

Not that it mattered. The back of the diversion was broken. The assault was stopped in its tracks. One group of swordsmen had managed to make it near the perimeter, before it was virtually disintegrated by a well-aimed canister round.

To Allen, that was the battle. Thousands of men dead in an hour. Save for one, all enemy casualties. The impersonality through the thermal sight and the easy of lazy Z-patterns were surreal to his gunner, Lance Corporal Spieers, who decided that he would rather not try to contemplate the massive loss of life he caused. It was no different, physically, from playing a video game, and he was trying to keep it no different mentally to ease his mind. When there was finally no enemy left to shoot, he leaned back in his feet, rubbing his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.

Allen leaned back in his seat as well. "You know, in Afghanistan, at least they had a chance," he said. "This is just fucked up."

"Better than us getting killed this time though," Childs countered.

"This isn't a fight, man," Allen said. "It's just… Kicking a bunch of half retarded babies in the face."

* * *

The next day was a bright one, no clouds in the sky as Lieutenant Davis made his way to the command post from his vehicle. He nodded to a nearby grunt as he passed, the Marine unloading and reloading a magazine out of boredom. He was greeted inside by the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the sight of lower level officers bent over a terrain model. In front of him was Captain Pelc and the other two platoon leaders of the LAV company, First Lieutenant Vaughn and Second Lieutenant Robles.

"Davis, want coffee?" Pelc asked.

"No," Davis declined. "If you have any grounds though. My crew needs it more."

"Right. Ok, they're on the table by the entrance." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "You all know how fucking much I hate these overcomplicated and ritualized op-orders. Here's all the info we have on the area. First, you will be heading north with your platoon to scout and map. Second, west. Third, South, and same deal. If you can make contact with locals, try and get a map, but I want eyes on."

"What about the language barrier, sir?" Vaughn asked.

"Translation books," Pelc answered. They'll be distributed later. Higher S2 got to play around with prisoners taken in LA. Apparently, their language is just a really distorted Latin, so it was easier than we expected."

Robles's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Really? Shit."

Pelc nodded. "Yeah. Roman-looking armor is starting to make more sense."

"Roger. When's SP?" Davis asked.

"Zero-nine-hundred for you guys. Infantry are already moving out for a battalion-sized perimeter and the tanks are staying at Redcon Two for support. You meet anything heavy, you can call in."

"Sounds good," Davis responded. The three platoon leaders took one of the papers from Pelc before heading back to their vehicles.

* * *

"Nah dude, I'm telling you, _I_ have the smallest dick."

"Bruh, _my dick_ is so small I confuse it with my pubes."

"My dick is _inverted_ man, you don't even know."

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" Allen asked, popping his hatch to get a better look around the vehicle as he talked.

"Sounds like something a guy with a big dick would say," Spieers said.

"Hey, you know what," Allen said, "I'm going to do something productive with my life and look out for shit."

Allen took out a pair of binoculars, searching the horizon for items of interest as Spieers and Childs continued their discussion, if one could call it that. There was another large forest to the south, and a lake to the west with a mountain at its side, a stream flowing into the water.

Other than that, untamed grassland. Not even farms. The column was on a faint road; it was long out of use, with no recent signs of use, but at one point it had been used to extensively the previous travelers' rut was still present in the ground. He looked again to the forest when something moving caught his eye. He looked closer but couldn't make it out.

"Spieers," he ordered. "Check out that forest to the north."

On his command, the turret rotated. Once it was near Allen's target he called the gunner to stop and search that area.

"Smoke? The fuck?" Spieers exclaimed, his head poking out of the hatch of the LAV.

"Scorched earth," Allen answered. "Prevents us from utilizing the land with our advance. Sucks for them because we don't need to forage. They're just starving their own people for no reason."

"Fuck, man," Childs said.

As Third Platoon advanced in a dispersed column formation down the road, Lieutenant Davis was studying the English/native translation book. He was writing down quick phrases in a notebook.

"I hope you dismounts are reading that language book," Davis said over his vehicle's intercom, even though he knew there would be no response. Although there was a loudspeaker, there was only a single handset to communicate to the three crewmen.

"Massive heat signature," Brown, his gunner, informed. "Flames behind the trees."

"Where?" Davis asked.

"In the smoke."

"Oh, right. Makes sense." Davis cleared his throat. "Down, take us to that forest. That path at our eleven should go to there. Maybe a village or some shit, I doubt forests here randomly catch fire."

Down complied, leading the four-vehicle convoy through the woods. The path through the trees was brief and open, and Davis soon got a good view of the burnt village as he peered outside of his hatch. He also got a good whiff. The smell was almost overpowering. The smell of burnt bodies was pervasive; even some of the scouts in the crew compartment were complaining of it.

"Platoon coil. TCs and scouts dismount," he said over the net. He grabbed the edges of his hatch and pulled himself up, catching his knees on top of the edges and pushing himself all the way out. He carefully climbed down, making sure the final jump down was as low as possible. His knees were bad enough already. Before he hopped down, he took off his CVC and tossed it on top of the turret, replacing it with a boonie cap he had inside his cargo pocket.

As his boots hit the ground, a loud crunch was heard, and his heart sank. He already knew that there were going to be little to no survivors, but the sound only reinforced that fact.

"I know it's a moot point, but search for survivors."

It was a moot point, as he said. Building after building was burnt to the ground. All trees in the area were burnt to stumps, and collapsed structures led Davis to believe that they had structures built up in the trees themselves. There were other structures, made out of clay and stones or something, that had mostly survived the fires, that sat in melted lumps around the clearing.

He stepped forwards and heard a squelch. He looked down. What he assumed to be a piece of burnt lumber was a charred torso, his boot embedded into it. As he took a closer look around, it was no different. Bodies were strewn about the ground, their color the same ashy black as the earth. He entered a nearby house. Nothing was in a recognizable form. Embers were still lit in ash piles. The heat slapped him in the face like a solid object, his eyes watering and burning like they were splashed with salt water. He backed out quickly; nothing was there for him.

He looked around at his platoon. The dismounts were having similar experiences. The mood had depressed since the second battle the previous day. His experience went from unstoppable killing machines to powerless wannabe heroes squabbling over the rubble of a city they tried to save.

He rubbed his eyes to calm himself. No point in worrying about the past, and the attack likely happened before they even arrived through the Gate anyway. This was certainly not done by the enemy. Even if they torched the town, fire does not flash-sear everything in sight. He was about to call the dismounts back into their vehicles when he thought he heard a woman's voice.

"Quiet!" he yelled, holding up a hand. He heard it again, a bit louder, and in the native language.

Other dismounts had picked up on it too. "The well!" one of the Marines yelled, pulling out a flashlight and sprinting towards the small stone structure in the middle of the clearing. There were two charred stumps sticking out of the ground, presumably the pulley system for a water bucket.

"Get some rappel gear!" Davis ordered, also running to the well. There, at the bottom, he could see a small, young female face, covered in dirtied blonde hair. "Hurry the fuck up!"

A Marine returned with a couple bundles of rope over his shoulders, with the platoon's two corpsmen right behind him.

"You know how to make a ranger harness?" Davis asked.

"I got it," Emerson, one of the corpsmen, answered. "Just set up the ropes."

"No, hold on," Davis said. "Just bring a LAV back here. We'll just tie you up to it and reverse it."

The Marine ran back to his vehicle, climbing up on top and knocking on the driver's hatch. After a second of conversation, he hopped back down. Davis went to a few meters behind the vehicle, motioning to the Marine to signal the driver from the front. Davis backed him up to within fifteen meters of the well and tied one end of the rope to a point on the back of the vehicle.

Emerson tied the rope to the front of his harness, making sure there was little slack in the rope. "Reverse!" he yelled.

Davis turned back to the LAV, signaling for the driver to move back slightly.

After several shouts of "Keep going!" and "Almost!" he finally heard a "Stop!" from the corpsman. Finally an "Up!" was heard. Davis signaled for the LAV to advance. The driver was skilled, it seemed, as he kept a slow but steady pace that didn't disrupt the two on the rope.

Emerson, with the help of a dismount, helped the villager out of the well. She was barely conscious and practically dead weight tot he two. To Davis, she looked incredibly young. No older than twenty or so. And, although he didn't want to seem like he was taking advantage of the situation, she was incredibly beautiful. Objectively speaking, he mentally told himself. He was allowed to make observations.

As her long, blonde, but muddied hair shifted he caught sight of her ears.

"OK so I guess elves exist now," he said half to himself. He stayed back, letting Emerson and the other corpsman get to work.

As she was on her back, Emerson setting up a stretcher next to her, she pointed to his dark skin and muttered something. It was faint, Davis caught it and wrote it down, quickly translating it with his book.

"Dark Elf?" He checked back through his book and re-translated. "The fuck?"

The Marines around him stopped what they were doing and stared at him. "Yo, I think elves are racist here," one of the dismounts said, and everyone save for the corpsmen burst into laughter despite their surroundings, despite the frantic and depressed mood of only a few minutes ago. It was a welcome reprieve, however, and a boost for morale despite the horror they witnessed the aftermath of.

Davis let the laughter die down. He thought it best to let the tension relieve itself. After a minute he caught his platoon's attention. "Fuck it. Let's hit the road again. Continue northwest."

After he settled back into his seat, Davis thought for a second. Whatever destroyed this village was likely still around, or would be back later. Maybe not, but there was a huge risk of it, he felt. He switched the J-Box, the control panel for his CVC, to broadcast on the company net. He wanted to make a call first.

* * *

"Woah, shit, we got buildings here," Down said.

"Good spot, driver," Davis praised. "Gunner, sights on." He pressed the button on his helmet to voice to the platoon. "Platoon line. Buildings ahead, some kind of village."

The four vehicles pulled up, about a hundred meters from each other. Once they reached just outside the main village road, they pulled in towards each other and formed a semicircle facing away from the village. As the gunners set up their sectors of fire, the rear ramp was lowered and the scout dismounts, four to each vehicle, slowly stepped outside as villagers began to crowd around in front of them.

Not too smart of them, thought Davis, but he was happy for the break. He really did not want to deal with a bunch of panicked civilians. "Relax, guys," he said to the dismounts as he exited his own vehicle. The commanders of the other three LAVs did likewise. "We don't need to spook them."

He stepped forwards, drawing their attention. As they stared at him, he pulled out his notebook and began reading. " _Good morning. I am Lieutenant Davis. I am from America_ ," he said in their language. No need to confuse them with specifying Marines. " _We do not want to fight you. We want information about the land_."

An old man stepped forwards. He held himself regally, despite his diminutive size, and peered at Davis curiously. He said a few words in his language, pointing at Davis and his Marines. Davis began writing it down in his notebook. Fortunately, the man said it slowly, and he was able to get most of it. He referenced his book.

Why are we here, and how can we be trusted? Davis took a few seconds to find translations. Luckily, the first part he already had written down. " _We are here because we were attacked by an army from this land. We are securing this area to protect our citizens. We want to earn your trust. A nearby village was destroyed by flame. We can protect you._ "

At this, the man's eye went wide with fear. He began yelling in his language to the villagers, and the followed suite. It was too fast for him to decipher, so he went and grabbed the old man, asking what was happening. He spoke slowly and clearly, and the translation Davis wrote down sent a chill down his back. "Fire dragon. One village is not enough to feed it. It will be back."

Thank God the cavalry had just arrived, he thought.

* * *

 **Auburn, California**

"So, what do you think?"

Sergeant Warren thought for a minute. "I would like to go across the Gate right now. But I joined the Guard instead of active for a reason."

The Staff Sergeant in front of him scratched his chin for a few seconds before continuing.

"You won't need to worry about that. Judging by your combat patch, I know you can see how long Guard deployments can be."

Warren nodded his head. "Yeah."

"For one, this is technically a non-deployable unit. This is going to be a duty station. Six months out there, six back in California."

"Doesn't sound that bad," Warren admitted. Even if it was more constant, his time away from his family was limited to six months at a time. "So how big is this mobilization?"

"Big," the Staff Sergeant answered. "Two brigades are being reflagged from other divisions, and this offer is being made to all local National Guard units."

Warren let it roll around in his head for a moment. For one, he would be back on a tank, which he honestly missed, despite all the bitching he had done on his last overseas deployment. Two, and most importantly, he would replace those damn Marines. "Ok, deal."

The Staff Sergeant reached across the table to shake his hand. As he sat down, Warren leaned over to get a better look at the soldier's unit patch, a circle bearing an hourglass-looking shape. "Welcome to the Seventh Infantry Division."


	3. To Kill a Dragon

A/N

Wow, really did not expect to run this to almost 4,000 words, but I just kept adding parts and, well, another couple days of writing. I actually completely forgot to introduce Rory in my first draft... And yes this does go differently from the episode, but I do not have stamina as a writer and I don't want to rewatch the series just to rewrite it. I'm just going off the Wikipedia episode summaries, and if I have to smudge the plot to make it fit to my 6 month old memory of the episode, so be it. It should be entertaining, at the very least.

Faust: Yeah I'm stressing that these guys really do not know what they're doing. This isn't another tour in the sandbox. This isn't an enemy or populace they're used to. In Gate, as far as characterization and plot flow goes, it's kinda shit. Itami's just this super bad-ass who makes princesses and demi-gods fall for him, and generals bend their plans around his whims. So I'm rewriting in parts to a "Well shit, now what?" direction. And honestly, if I was just going to rewrite the anime or manga (or LN for that matter), you could just enjoy the original work. In a lot of fanfics, especially Mass Effect ones, I skip the battle scenes since they're just retellings of missions I've played a dozen times over.

Systemman: Thanks for the timeline. I was honestly too lazy to reread it to figure it out. But now that I'm looking at it, I can't get the plot points how I want them while keeping the timeline vague. But I don't want to go into the Imperial side of things a lot. It's from the US perspective, and we've already all watched/read Gate. No point in it if I can make it work otherwise. So I'm gonna bullshit my way out and say that an auxiliary army was already on its way immediately after he heard of the defeat on the US's side of the Gate.

* * *

"Well, I'm not sure what I was expecting," Davis said to himself. The village elder was directing the organized chaos, directing carts into the street and talking to villagers; he wasn't sure what about, but he guessed it was about what to bring with them. He went after him.

"Stop!" he yelled, running up to the elder. " _We can protect you from the dragon_ ," he said in the foreign language.

The man responded, but Davis didn't bother translating it. " _Get underground or away from the village. Moving will make you vulnerable_ ," he continued.

The village elder opened his mouth to speak, but something behind Davis caught his attention. As a large, shapeshifting shadow settled itself on the ground around Davis, he cursed under his breath. "It's right there, isn't it?"

The sprint back to his vehicle was the fastest he had ever felt himself run, seemingly exceeding his hundred meter pace that he ran in PTs, in full kit. "Start it up! START THE FUCKING CAR!"

The other three LAVs of his platoon had begun moving, Bravo section taking aim at the dragon while moving out, while Sergeant Allen's vehicle made a lazy semicircle around Davis's. Bravo section hesitated to open fire without orders, fearing to provoke the beast Davis had assumed, but the dragon let loose its flame regardless. In seconds a building was incinerated, flame splashing like napalm, catching ground and nearby buildings on fire. The LAVs opened up in turn, drawing the monster's attention away from the civilians.

The rounds had little effect, but they diverted the dragon's attention away from the village. Davis reached his vehicle, hopping up the side and tossing his kevlar helmet down into his station. He put on his CVC and commanded his section to roll out. The two vehicles opened fire, several rounds poking holes in the dragon's wings, but like bravo section, did little to no real damage.

"Fuck, I wish we had fuckin sabot rounds," Brown said over the intercom.

"Would they penetrate?" Davis asked.

"Hell yeah," Brown answered. "It's a damn sabot, just not tank-sized. But, like, fifty at a time."

"Just keep shooting, man!"

The massive dragon circled around the vehicles, choosing a target. It swooped low and opened its mouth. Before it could breathe onto the LAV, a tremendous explosion hit its side. The dragon bounced back and tumbled in the air before regaining control and looking towards the new target at the horizon.

Davis felt it rather than heard it. Over a thousand meters out, but he felt the compression on his inner ear as the boom form the M1A1 Abrams "Xolotl" reached his position. Davis looked over down the road and spotted two dust trails in the distance, one with a massive bloom of dust at its head.

"Arrow, this is One, get back to the village and dismount the corpsmen! The dragon hit a building! Over!"

With his command, his LAV and the other ferrying a corpsman sped back towards the small town. The other two had followed at a slower speed as a rear guard, keeping their weapons trained on the dragon. Eventually they got close to the buildings and dropped their ramps, the dismounts exiting with the corpsmen to assist them with the injured.

"Arrow Three One, this is Thunder Two Golf. Did I kill it?"

Davis brought the CVC mike to his mouth and pushed in the transmission button. "Thunder Two Golf, this is Arrow Three One. Negative, but you pissed it off."

"This is Thunder Two Golf, roger."

"This is Thunder One, firing HEAT."

A second later there was another explosion by the dragon, although much smaller. The damage seemed more significant, however, with a massive bloody wound opening into the dragon's side. It roared in pain, flying high into the air to escape its attackers.

"Thunder, this is Arrow Three One, what was that first round?"

"This is Thunder Two, that was MPAT airburst."

"This is Arrow Three One, roger."

By then the rest of the LAVs had reformed and gathered in a large box just outside of the village. The dismounts had left their vehicles and ran towards the village, into burning buildings to try and rescue the villagers caught inside. In the panic, many civilians were outside when the dragon struck and were caught directly by the flame. The Marines ignored them as they smoldered on the ground, instead breaking in doors and windows to reach the screaming, live ones inside.

Davis turned his attention back to the battle. The dragon was in a lazy circle high above the two tanks. It suddenly swooped downwards at them, and the two tanks reversed in reaction, going full speed, ignoring bumps, rocks, and other obstacles as they created distance between each other. The dragon reached the one named Xolotl, grabbing the hull with its massive, clawed foreleg. The tank hardly budged, however, and the momentum changed the flight path of the beast. The tank rocked back and forth on its treads for a few seconds before settling back and reversing more, aligning the front of the hull with the dragon.

The dragon landed, facing the tank, opening its maw wide. "Shit," Davis said to himself.

The fire spewing from the dragon made a massive smoke cloud, obscuring the entire even from Davis. The dragon roared in triumph, a massive bellow Davis could hear even through the sound cushioning of his CVC. As the smoke cleared the dragon lowered its head to take in the sight of its new prey.

Only to get the view of an undamaged M256 gun staring at its face from ten meters away. A canister round was fired point blank, peppering the beast with its ball bearings and shredding off its right forearm entirely. The same side of its torso was bleeding profusely, blood pouring down and dripping off its limp leg.

The dragon took flight. Its ascent was shaky, pain obvious across its entire form, but it managed to take air faster than the tank could track it despite numerous small holes in its similarly damaged wing. It didn't get too far before another boom was heard, a pinprick of light streaking towards the flying beast, but it missed and zoomed off into the abyss of the deep forest.

"Jesus Christ."

The dragon disappeared in the dying light of they sky.

Davis dropped down into his hatch, slouching in his seat. From the destroyed village to the dragon fight, the day had been mentally exhausting. He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the weariness, but that only made him more exhausted. He stopped before he wanted to just sit there and sleep. After a quick stretch he popped his head out of the hatch to the sight of children swarming his men's vehicles. As the tanks got close to the LAVs to regroup, they had to slow down lest they risk running over any of the villagers.

"So how's it feel to be a hero?" Brown asked from his station. At Davis's blank look he continued, "In Afghanistan you'd give it a week. Then you drive by and you get blown the fuck up by an IED, boom you're in an L-ambush."

Davis continued to stare at him.

"Well, shit's probably different here anyway."

Davis turned back towards the commotion outside. The other LAVs had mostly kept to themselves, their TCs simply waving to the kids. The children themselves were incredibly excited, some even trying to climb onto the vehicles before their parents scolded or picked them off the sides. Others were crowding around the dismounted Marines, who were playing along with them, used to civilian contact from previous tours in the Middle East. The tankers, in contrast, were much more amicable than his platoon's crews, having climbed out of their turrets to talk with, give treats to, or otherwise interact with the villagers. Even one of the drivers had popped his hatch and was waving at them.

As he scanned the crowd one in particular stood out. She was wearing a dark dress, trimmed in red, Victorian or something in style. She looked young, no older than twenty, but most obviously she carried a gigantic, ornately decorated axe. Perhaps he should have noticed that first, he told himself. She was standing proudly on the hull of Xolotl, seeming _very_ interested in the man trying to speak with her. Eventually the tanker pointed towards Davis.

With a coy wave to the tanker, which was unenthusiastically returned, she hopped off the tank and strolled towards his own vehicle. Instead of climbing up like a normal person, she used her axe somewhat as a vaulting pole, gracefully landing on top of the turret in front of him, and brought the weapon back up into her grip as if it weighed nothing.

"Mind the step," he advised. She was trouble. He just knew it. He got a feeling, a pinprick in the back of his neck as he looked at her face.

"I am Rory, priestess of the God of Darkness, Emroy," she said, introducing herself with a small curtsy.

Snazzy title, Davis thought to himself. "Lieutenant Davis, First Light Armor Recon Battalion. Convenient you can speak English," he observed.

"Being a demi-goddess has its privileges," Rory stated.

He didn't know about being a demi-goddess, but from the way that the villagers around her looked at her, she was probably damn important. And considering the presence of magic and fantastical creatures, he wasn't going to outright dismiss it. Especially now that she spoke fluent English out of nowhere.

"So for what do I owe the pleasure of this... conversation?" he asked, eyeing her curiously. She certainly held herself like royalty, or however he thought royalty should hold itself at least. Proud, her free hand on her hip, a small grin at the corners of her mouth as she returned the appraising stare.

"Don't play dumb, Lieutenant Davis," she scolded. She looked over to the tanks, specifically at Xolotl, which had a massive gouge in its side skirt from the dragon's claws. "What is that magnificent mount of yours?"

"It's called a tank," he explained. "And it's a vehicle, like a carriage. Except it weighs a hundred forty thousand pounds and has a huge gun on it."

"Would you mind if I were to adopt them under my holy lord's name?" she asked. "They are surely worthy warriors for Him."

"One, they're not mine. They're just attached to my unit. Two, yes, they would mind." She was getting under his skin already for some reason.

She pouted, disappointment exaggerated in her voice. "Oh, you're no fun."

"I'm not here to have fun," he countered. "I'm here to, evidently, kill dragons."

"Yet you didn't."

"Bit closer than you were," he said.

She ignored the last comment, looking around at his men once more. "May I go back with you?"

"Why should I say yes?" he asked. She was definitely up to something.

"To look around. If there's a new army invading the land of Emroy, I should see it with my own eyes."

"As a visitor," he said.

"As a visitor," she agreed. "May I?" she asked, gesturing towards his hatch.

"In the back," he said, no amusement in his voice. She looked towards the rear of his vehicle before he added, "Way back. We're taking the wounded with us. There's more room with them than in here."

That wasn't what she wanted, even he gathered that, but it was too late to back out.

One last thing, he remembered now that he had a break. He brought the CVC mic to his mouth. "Four, this is One. Did you call in the wounded to base? Over."

"One, Four, roger. They have medical personnel at the gate waiting for us, over."

"Four, One, thanks. Out."

* * *

"Professional X-Ray, this is Arrow Three One. We are five mikes from base, four vics, two-eight pacs. Uncounted extras for priority casevac, over."

"Arrow Three One, this is Professional X-Ray, roger, uh, is that casevac the one called in at time one-eight-three-one, over?"

"Professional X-Ray, Arrow Three One, yes. Burn victims, over."

"This is Professional X-Ray, roger, that is all."

"Professional X-Ray, Arrow Three One, out."

Step one complete, he thought to himself as he moved the CVC's mic back away from his mouth. The convoy roared down the road, as fast as the towed carriages could safely take. Alpha section, which included Davis's and Allen's LAVs, led the column, his own vehicle towing a carriage with half the injured and their families. Next were the tanks, their turrets rotated to opposite flanks, keeping watch for any enemies, grounded or airborne. Finally came Bravo section, the LAVs belonging to Sergeant Therough,who was also towing a carriage, and Corporal Blumenthal, who brought up the rear of the formation.

There were only two extraneous passengers he allowed in his convoy: Rory, and a young blue-haired magician named Lelei. He had seen the damage done by magicians during the push onto Sloppy Joe Hill. Not only did she pick up English incredibly quickly, able to hold basic conversations after reading through his translation book a couple of times, but she could advise and assist the MEU regarding the magical threat a properly organized Imperial army represented. Her eager willingness to engage with the Marines only served to cement his faith in her intentions.

He hoped she could even serve to help bring an end to the war, if one could call it that, or one-sided slaughter, if the Marines decided to press it.

* * *

"Who the hell are these people you brought in?"

"They're injured refugees from the fight with the dragon, sir," Davis replied.

Captain Pelc shook his head, dreading the headache to come, while Major Leal stayed silent. Pelc shot Davis a 'This is your fault, dammit,' look at him while the major stared at the ground for a minute. After the short wait, he spoke.

"Pelc, you don't have to worry about this. This was bound to happen anyway. We have tents to spare to keep them and their families," he said. "This is turning into a permanent station anyway. Rest of the MEU is due to arrive as soon as the engineers finish setting up the housing and set up a basic fortification."

A man in the back of the room spoke up. It was Captain Tashjian, a short Armenian immigrant, the commander of one of Bulldog Company, the infantry company who initially stormed the hill along with Arrowhead Company and Thunder Platoon. "Pelc, what is the status of the refugees?"

"Mostly injured," Pelc answered. "Immediate family came along too, as well as person of high interest, that I've already discussed in the post-action."

"Are we a charity now?" Tashjian shot back.

"My lieutenant believed it the best choice at the time. He did not want to force the village to take care of people when they were already low on resources after the dragon burnt half their farms."

The two officers stared at each other for a few seconds, before Tashjian looked down into his mug and Pelc at the battalion commander.

"Sir, you said fortifications earlier?" Davis asked, breaking the silence. It wasn't particularly relevant, but it lightened the atmosphere a bit.

"Yeah," the major answered. "They attack like Romans, so we're setting up Roman-style fort walls. Ditches and pits, nothing crazy."

"Roger, sir," Davis replied. "Anything else?"

"For you, no," the major replied. "You can leave, actually."

Davis nodded politely and turned to leave the tent, discreetly grabbing a few packets of instant coffee and creamers.

* * *

"Sir, we have a situation with one of the refugees," Captain Griffith, the battalion executive officer, informed him.

"What is it, Griffith?" Major Leal asked, bringing his cup of coffee to his lips. That was one thing the pogues did right, he thought to himself. Remember coffee in logpack, and plenty of it.

"To put it simply, one named Lelei or something wants to go collect scales from the dragon mount corpses and sell them in a nearby city."

"I- What?" He nearly spit out his coffee. Rather cliché, but it was so ridiculous that he nearly forgot he was drinking as he started talking.

"Hear me out, sir, I think it's a good idea," Griffith said defensively.

"How?"

"For one, it will spread word that we're powerful to the surrounding populace," Griffith explained. "We defeated two armies in a matter of a week and crippled a gigantic monster. Besides 'hearts and minds', this will help at the negotiating table. Two, information gathering. We can imbed SOF inside the city to gather information and act how we see fit."

He took a deep breath. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he initially thought. "You look like you wanted to add something."

"It's small, sir, but she could also work as a translator for us, and help us work with populaces. She's already near-fluent in English and is, and I have no authority on this, but seems like a very skilled magician for her age."

That third point piqued his interests. He wished Griffith would stop doing that. Just because he felt something wasn't important he tended to leave details as a sidenote.

"Tell me more," he said, "about Lelei. She's the one Pelc talked about, I believe." Not just _not_ a bad idea. Good idea, actually.

* * *

Sloppy Joe Hill, as the men were calling it, a reference to the one-sided slaughter they inflicted upon the enemy forces, had grown to be quite comfortable over the past couple weeks, Sergeant Allen had to admit. Permanent tents were being set up, the top of the hill flattened to make organization of the area easier. Generators were brought in to provide power, many of them wind and solar powered due to the restricted access to fuel. The Gate was only about as wide as a six lane road, severely limiting the ability for the US to project its power.

He left the chow hall tent, which was rather bare by most structure standards, but the engineers had at least put up plywood flooring with two-by-four ribbing. The roadways, torn by tracks and tires alike, were likely to turn to deep mud at first rain, but for now were lasting. He walked by the command complex, a series of tents and hardstands surrounded by concrete T-barriers topped by barbed wire.

Humvees rolled by ferrying supplies, food, and water, while other Marines traveled on foot with their kit and weapons from their positions on the perimeter to their barracks, and back. Since the initial push the perimeter had expanded to make room for the entire reinforced battalion-sized force, meaning many more men on call and further walks, but it was preferred to sleeping in holes for days on end.

The past couple of weeks had been tense since the initial battle to take and secure Sloppy Joe Hill. Many young Marines had gotten the feeling that it was over, their armies defeated, but the more senior veterans knew how wrong that could be. Third platoon's mission the other day and the potentially catastrophic battle had been evidence enough of the fact that there was always something going on in the world, and that Marines would be there to kick _something's_ ass.

He had eventually found his company's tent, Arrowhead Company, First Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion, which housed the three line platoons and command section. It was mostly full. Men from second and third platoons as well as headquarters were resting inside, "jack shacks" set up for those fortunate enough to have bottom bunks, while those on top simply read, slept, or played cards to pass the time. The crewmen and dismounts of first platoon were by their vehicles, the week being their turn for the Quick Reaction Force. The rest of the company were focused on preventative maintenance, but were otherwise unoccupied.

"The fuck you mean?" he heard one of the Marines say as he walked past. "If you fuck a dude, you're gay. There's no such thing as 'bi'."

"You're retarded. 'Bi' is when you fuck both guys and girls," a second replied.

"Why you so defensive? You gay or somethin'?" said the first.

"No, you fucking idiot. Look, that's like saying you're straight, even though you fuck dudes, because you also fuck girls."

He finally found his lieutenant, leaving the conversation behind him. Why did he always have to walk past at the weirdest moments?

"Hey, sir, you wanted me?"

"Yeah," Davis replied. "We _might_ have a mission again. Get your guys' bags packed for a few days."

Allen's brow furled unconsciously. "What's this about?"

"One of the refugees, the blue-haired one with the magic stick. She wants to make a trip to some nearby city."

"We're babysitting civilians now?" Allen asked incredulously.

"One, might," Davis reaffirmed. "Two, it's more than that. Battalion wants a scouted route to a city."

"Ok, so how long are we talking?" It wasn't worth arguing over, Allen thought. Decisions are made regardless of his opinions.

"No more than a week, probably SP over, she does her shit, SP back."

"Rah, sir," Allen replied, and went to go find his crewmen and dismount NCO.

* * *

"Two?" he asked.

"Yeah, she keeps asking for two," the cook answered.

He stared at the to-go boxes in his hands, a couple bottles of water balanced precariously on the top. "Why do we keep giving her two? Isn't she just getting extra shit?"

"Nah, she only eats one of them. Just leaves the other one."

"So we're wasting food then."

"Pretty much," the cook answered. "But it usually gets eaten I guess by some hungry native after it gets thrown out, but even if not we don't put much food in the second one."

"Any idea why?"

The cook shrugged. "Said something about her dad, I think, but mistranslations and all that shit."

He sighed. The refugee girl had a broken leg, so it wasn't like she could go to the mess hall on her own, and it's not like the Marine on kitchen duty had anything better to do with his life, but it was still ridiculous that she's getting brought double rations just on request.

Whatever, he thought. Off to find this "Tooka" person.

* * *

He caught Davis right outside the tent. A quick salute was rendered, which was deftly returned. "Davis, just to tell you, I don't think you were necessarily wrong," Tashjian said, surprising Davis.

He had thought he pissed the captain off for that discussion to happen right in front of the battalion commander. "Why's that, sir?"

"It was a good decision, just not the best one. But the important part, I think, is that you made a decision. Some people would fear pissing off their superiors," Tashjian explained. "But you decided doing the right thing, and helping people, was worth an ass-chewing."

"Well, uh," Davis muttered, stammering. "Thank you, sir."

He stared at the ground for a second, and at the canteen in his hand, the reason for him leaving the tent for the portable water tank. "So, what would you have done, sir?"

Captain Tashjian shrugged his shoulders. "Had corpsmen come out to us and set up an aid station for the whole village, I think. Show them that we give a shit about them and are willing to help," he explained. "What you did was take their dying friends and family and haul them off to some mysterious hill taken by an unstoppable enemy their government is at war with."

Davis nodded as the captain finished talking.

"Of course though," the captain began to reiterate, "I can't truly fault you for what you did."

"Yes, sir," replied Davis.


	4. Interlude

Just a quick little thing concurrent with To Kill A Dragon

* * *

Xolotl roared down the trail, dust kicking up behind in a massive plume. Or, rather, the M1A1 Abrams tank bearing his name. Following it was Thor. The two tanks were several miles from the perimeter of Sloppy Joe Hill, scanning the horizon for threats as they raced to a small village after being called in by the LAV reconnaissance platoon.

It wasn't long before the gunner of Xolotl spotted the target a mile and a half away through his sight. A small dot at first, in the 3x magnification used for scanning, but when he switched to 10x the target was much clearer.

It certainly was a big, mean dragon.

"You think you can hit it from here?" the tank commander asked, peering through the commander's sight extension, viewing the same picture as the gunner.

"Probably." The gunner was only a Lance Corporal, but had proven himself expertly skilled in the past.

"Load up an MPAT," the TC ordered. "Air burst."

The loader hit the ammo door switch with his knee, making the door open rather quickly, but too slowly for his nerves to like. He identified the correct round, which had a large "M" written in Sharpie on the aft cap, and smacked the release tab with his near hand. The large round slid out, his left hand catching it and controlling its path so he could access the nose-cone tip, turning it a few degrees to let it know it was hitting an air target.

He moved that hand back down just below the warhead, to the "neck", and guided it into the open breach of the main gun. He stepped back out of the way of the breach's path of recoil and raised the arming lever. "Up!" he yelled.

"Legolas this shit," the TC commanded.

"On the _fuckin'_ way!"

 _THUMP_

The turret shielded most of the noise from the crew inside, the driver in fact hearing it the loudest, with just a poorly sealing, vibrating hatch separating him from the muzzle flare. The gunner heard nothing. Staring intently into his sight, he didn't even notice the movement of the breach, only knowing it fired because he saw the round travel downrange after he pressed the triggers. The loader caught a wave of compressed air, kicking up dirt and dust in his station. The usual rush of adrenaline, stemming from somewhere in his subconscious, hit him like a cold spot in a shower, giving him a tingle traveling down his spine to his toes.

To the TC, it was just another day.

"Arrow Three One, this is Thunder Two Golf. Did I kill it?" the gunner transmitted over the LAV platoon's company net.

"Thunder Two Golf this is Arrow Three One. Negative, but you pissed it off."

"This is Thunder Two Golf, roger."

"This is Thunder One, firing HEAT."

By then Thor had come aside Xolotl, an interval of about a hundred meters, and raised its gun towards the dragon. Like their own shot, it was a muted thump. The shockwave had passed in front of their tank, leaving a visible wake loose dirt, and the sound was blocked by both their tank and the padding of their CVCs. Although the TC's sight extension couldn't quite make it out, the gunner saw the round impact along the side of the dragon. It was a glancing hit, but the stream of molten material emanating from the HEAT round's explosion cut a deep gash along the beast's side, causing mass amounts of blood to spill as the flesh behind it cauterized.

"Thunder, this is Arrow Three One, what was that first round?"

"This is Thunder Two, that was MPAT airburst," the TC answered.

"This is Arrow Three One, roger."

The TC had opened his hatch, pulling out a pair of binoculars to view the enemy monster as it turned its attention towards the tank section. It reoriented itself and flapped its massive wings, gaining momentum as it continued its path, steering itself towards the two tanks.

"Driver back up!" he yelled to his driver. "Ass right!"

Thor, to his left, had done similar, to the opposite. The tanks created distance between themselves, ignoring bumps and dips as they sped away at full speed. Whichever tank the beast went after, the wing tank would have the ability to help defend the other.

That was the plan, at least, before Thor took a sudden dip and disappeared from sight.

The dragon dived towards Xolotl, extending its tree trunk-sized forearms to grab at the tank. The TC, seeing this, braced, but nothing came of it. The dragon's claws failed to find purchase on the tank, slipping off of the depleted uranium-reinforced side skirts rather than digging in like it intended. The monster's entire trajectory changed, even, albeit by about fifteen degrees.

The gunner tried to engage, but as he engaged the hydraulics, a fountain of hot hydraulic splashed his legs.

"Oh God! It's on my balls!"

"What!?"

"Pump's leaking, no power!" the gunner replied.

Hydraulic pressure had gone out. The TC cursed to himself. "Driver back ass left!"

The tank obeyed its driver's commands, at least, rearing back at an angle until the driver had seen the gun tube, barely visible at the top of his periscope, pointed at the dragon.

The TC took in the sight of the dragon, grounded, its maw wide and just above ground level. He watched as its chest heaved, drawing in breath, before he caught onto its intentions. He immediately dropped to his seat, bringing the hatch down with him. "Gun up! Gun fuckin' down! Close your doghouse! Loader's hatch!"

The gunner obeyed immediately, turning the manual elevation handle with his left hand, his right working on the metallic shields that guarded the gunner's primary sight. Just in time , as what felt like rain splashed against the front of the hull and turret as the dragon let loose its most dangerous weapon. The hatch was difficult to lock, leaving the TC to use all his weight to hold it down as the locking handle only found partial purpose. He saw, with relief, as the loader braced himself against his guards, the hatch closed tight above him.

The onslaught ended after seconds, although to the crew it felt like minutes.

"Gunner, manual back up." He turned to the man next to him, staring him in the eyes with anger to the beast that dared fire at him, at his crew, and at his tank. "Can."

A sadistic grin filled the loader's face underneath his fire-resistant balaclava. He opened the ammo door and searched for a second before releasing a large, front-heavy round with "C" Sharpie'd onto the aft cap. He slid it in quickly despite its awkward balance, arming the gun once the ammo door had sealed itself back shut.

He tried to look through the periscopes surrounding his hatch, but the forward ones had melted partially from the heat, obscuring his vision too much to see clearly.

"Once you have a shot, man," he said, "kill that bitch."

He looked through the sight extension again, and thankfully the gunner's auxiliary sight was untouched. Like he hoped, the gun mantle had protected it from the flames. As the smoke cleared, he saw that the beast had not moved from its spot. It wanted to see the corpse of its prey, he guessed.

"Stupid bitch didn't move," muttered the gunner. "On the way."

 _THUMP_

The dragon had flinched at the last second, he saw, as it realized its target was not a pile of ash and bone like most of its victims. Only half of the tungsten ball bearings had hit, but it was more than enough to seemingly vaporize the dragon's forearm, reducing it to hanging shreds of sinew and flesh. It roared in pain, turning to protect its wound with its armored hide, but the loader already had the next round in his hands. Another canister.

Unfortunately for Xolotl, the beast had suddenly lifted from the air before it could strike again. Thor attacked again, but the round missed by feet, giving the dragon room to flee for its life. All the TC could do at that point was to open his hatch and cuss at the thing, which he did, profusely.

"Two, this is One. Sorry about the wait. Hit a ditch."

"One, Two. Yeah I saw," the TC answered. "Saw you miss that last shot too."

"Whatever, let's just get back with those LAVs."

On that command, the two tanks turned themselves towards the village, creeping towards the reconnaissance platoon and the very rowdy crowd of civilians.


	5. Preparations

A/N: Sorry about the wait. Company had a bunch of shit to do. Not dead though. It's a short chapter but I wanted to get something out, and it's a bridge chapter to the Italica battle.

Drgyen: It _is_ filler. It's just a perspective I wanted to add in that's concurrent to the main chapter.

* * *

"These are tan," Sergeant Warren observed. They couldn't even get green tanks?

The man next to him shrugged his shoulders. "They're what we got. At least they're in good condition this time."

"You get shit tanks before, sir?"

"Yeah," Captain Minh answered. "We got them from Third ID and they were all broke as shit. These ones were at least used by the nearby National Guard instead of run-down stock."

"Eighty-First Armored then?" Warren asked.

Minh nodded his head. "We've got enough for two companies taken from storage at Fort Irwin. So far the division only has a brigade activated, so an infantry brigade with an armored cav squadron works."

Warren stepped towards the closes tank, resting his arms against the front slope of the vehicle. He rubbed the rough surface, taking in a feeling he hadn't felt in years, feeling the bumps and grooves of the frontal glacis tickle his palms. "I haven't been on one of these since my first enlistment," he said. "I went Guard after that and they put me in with the infantry."

"We'll see how much you like still tanks once we start services," Minh stated.

* * *

Leilei felt the weight of the bag over her shoulders. It was aching, but not enough to slower her down. The flesh of the dragons had deteriorated significantly, leaving the armored scales as easy pickings for her, Tuka, and a few of the Green Men who wanted souvenirs to take home. She didn't mind the latter. They were the ones who had fought. If anything, scavenging rights were a gift to her.

She brought the full bag back to the metallic wagon, emptying its contents into the wheeled trailer. The loot had to be dozens of gold coins at that point. The scales were rare and tough, although this was more due to its artificial scarcity enforced by the Imperial military, who reserved them for flying mounts. The scales were light and tough, impervious to any non-magical weapon known to man.

Or rather, known to the Empire. The Green Men had proven that quite incorrect over the past couple months. They had been rather accommodating of her idea to sell the scales in the nearby city of Italica. They were even willing to let her away with the profits of the sale! How powerful and rich was their nation, that they were willing to let that amount of money to go uncollected?

She had been collecting since that morning, and it was past noon. The trailer was nearly full, and she had decided that had been enough. She called for the Green Men to drive her back. They obliged, eager to get back to their own fort.

The ride back wasn't that long, only several minutes, but as she took in every detail of the fort, it seemed to take eternity as her mind went into overdrive. This was the first time she could take a proper look at the area from the outside.

The most obvious feature was the outer wall, obviously. A steep berm with shiny, metallic coils along the incline had a chest-high pile of brown bags which soldiers patrolled along. Every few hundred yards sat a tower with a man observing the perimeter. Outside of that were two trenches, shaped so that it was a sharp drop but that there was no space to hide from the defenders' sight. Further out was a smaller trench, just a few feet deep, that contained iron constructions that resembled an "X" if one were to make it three-dimensional. However, it was wider than the closer trenches, at three of the obstacles wide, too far to jump across even at full speed.

These were rather complicated defenses, she thought to herself, for a simple field fortification. Most fortress cities had a simple stone wall, albeit a rather large one, with ports for archers to fire out of. How did the Green Men construct defenses in their home countries? She nearly shuddered to think of the nigh-impenetrable obstacles that could be constructed if the Green Men were given more time and resources.

* * *

Borges looked over his rig one more time. It wasn't very complicated. His team had stored their plate carriers, as a simple ceramic plate was near useless against swords, and their mission required stealth rather than even a little bit of bulk. Instead he had an old ALICE-style belt with several equipment pouches. He had removed the harness and added a couple of small pouches, just large enough to hold rifle magazines but slim enough to fit discreetly underneath a cloak.

His rifle was a shortened M4; the Mk. 18 was technically a Navy weapon, given to Navy and Marine special forces, but his unit had managed to procure one. Being embedded with the Marines had helped, since the presence of Navy logistics had simplified things. From his toughbox he grabbed a couple handfulls of 20-round magazines and stuffed them into pouches. He would be given the ammunition later. The final piece was a quick-attach silencer that he stored in a pouch, as it would be too bulky to conceal easily. Finally, he picked up his M11 handgun, a shortened version of the P226. It went into a small canvas holster on his hip, between a couple of pouches.

With his gear built to his liking, he hopped up and down, listening for jingles and clanks. He secured a couple loose straps and exposed buckles with high-speed tape. Satisfied, he threw a large cloak around his shoulders, concealing his gear. His rifle hung underneath his arm on a one-point sling.

His team of three others were gathered inside a small portable room by the time he got there. It was just big enough to hold a company's worth of weapons, with weapon racks lining the walls. Also inside were boxes of ammunition and explosives. One of the others, Sergeant Flynn, was stuffing bricks of C4 into a chest seemingly bought from locals. He didn't grab much, but considering direct action wasn't their mission, they shouldn't need much. The plastic explosive was rather versatile, so if they needed to improvise, they likely could.

Captain Wooding and Sergeant Spence were standing around an equipment bench, filling their magazines with rounds. "Sup?" Spence greeted him as he entered.

Borges shrugged. "Nothing," he replied. Nothing to discuss, really. Just mission prep. They had already been fully briefed the day before. He looked back at the two, and there was already a sparse map laid out. "Hey, where's the ammo?" he asked, turning to the arms room sergeant.

"In the crate back there," he said, pointing his thumb in the direction of an opened wooden crate.

Borges picked up one of the cans and placed it on the bench. He opened it and began digging into the boxes of clips. "Sir, how much?"

"Much as you need," Wooding said. "We're the first guys going out this far, so take as much as you need to not die."

"Alright, my favorite," he said. He took the empty magazines out of his pouches and began emptying the stripper clips into them, the speedloader attachment greatly assisting the process. In only a few minutes he had filled his magazines. As a backup, whether that be shit hitting the fan or simply a ready-use ammunition container, he asked for several 30-round magazines. He filled those too and placed them inside a small bandoleer which he then slung over his shoulder, securing it to his belt near his hip.

"We'll be getting resupplied if we need," Wooding said. said. "After we set up shop the CO's gonna be using other teams to, I don't want to say smuggle, but smuggle in ammo and money."

"So we're not just scouting then," Spence observed.

Wooding shook his head. "No. Got changed since last night. Marines want an ear in Italica so they know what's up, so we're going to be a bit more permanent. So we're being allowed a bit more leeway in what we bring. We just need to be able to sneak it in a wagon."

Wooding reached into his pocket for a notebook. "You know what, I'll just give the mission update since it won't take long." He slid the map into the center of the bench for the other three to see. "Basically, we don't know shit other than the location of the area from a UAV. These forests are untouched, and grunts will be scoping it out soon enough."

Borges took a closer look at the map. The city was about a day or two of travel, he assumed. However, it was open for miles around. There were some forests to the east, but not close enough to affect their mission. There was a massive port by the river and a huge seemingly artificial forest, which would need to be looked at later.

"We will be entering through a horse-drawn carriage, like planned. We have a native helping us who will help us to secure a room, and we'll be posing as foreign traders. We're going to be setting up and seeing what's going on with the economy, politics, and the population's mood so Psyops can slide right in when they get here. Once we settle in, the rest of the team will arrive and we can get to work."

Flynn scratched his beard. Unlike the rest of his unit, he tended to keep a clean-shaven appearance save for when they went in-country. "So basically, shit's gong to go wrong."

"Yeah probably."

* * *

She was shorter than he imagined. She was fifteen years of age, however, so he really shouldn't have expected much. She was a genius, however, at least according to the brief, having learned English over the course of a few days. As the team walked up she gave a crisp, respectful bow, which the team returned. Foreign customs and all that was half of their training.

"Good morning," Wooding greeted. "I am Lieutenant Wooding. With me are Sergeants Borges, Spence, and Flynn," he introduced, gesturing to each member of the team as he said their names. "U.S. Army."

* * *

"My lord, I have something that may be of interest to you."

Emperor Molt raised his eyebrows at the suggestion. The dim chandelier of his study created deep shadows around the room, and did not help to assuage the silhouette created by the bright light of the hall on the back of the man entering the room.

One of his military tactical advisers.

"Yes? What would that be?" he asked, motioning for the man to come inside.

The man walked forwards and the light shifted on his form, revealing an elegant suit of armor upon a muscular, scarred body. It was built for form rather than function, offering little protection, but was more comfortable to wear in social situations and had decorations unsuited for field use. He held his hand out, dropping a small brass tube onto the Emperor's desk.

Molt eyed it before picking it up. It was shaped like a wine glass; the narrow end blackened as if by fire, and the broad end had a groove cut into it around the base. As he manipulated it in his hand he noticed that on the flat side there was a small circle with an indent roughly in the center of it.

"What is this from?"

"Those beyond the gate," his adviser answered. "It was recovered by one of the survivors of their conquest of the hill. He described the Green Men's weapons as spitting out one of those every time one of them used their weapon."

"So this the reports of an entire army of magicians with powerful staffs is less than accurate," Molt deduced.

"We believe so, my lord."

Of course. Everything was always simpler when put under scrutiny. Everything ad a solution. These Green Men, no matter how powerful, were no exception.

"So we adapt," Molt concluded. "That's all there is to it, as there is in all war."

"One more thing, my lord," the adviser continued. "We in fact have the basic idea down."

"Oh?"

"We didn't want to bother you until we had something to show. We had been trying for years to mass produce magical weaponry for common men. Until a week ago when this turned up, we were missing one crucial break."

"And what would that be?" the emperor asked.

"It was simpler than we thought," the adviser explained. "Before we were trying to imbue the weapon itself with a source of magic. But with this," he said, holding up the brass tube, "we got the idea of simply containing a small, disposable magical source. The trick is to release it."

The Emperor rose to his feet, putting out the reading candle on his desk and closing his logbook. He snatched the cloak from his chair behind him, throwing it around his shoulders and tying it around hi chest. "Show me what you have."

* * *

"Oh my God," Flynn muttered. The carriage was parked a mile away from the city gates. Even though it was night time, the city was alight with the blazes of dozens of fires.

Captain Wooding brought the radio up to his mouth. "Professional X-Ray, this is Musketeer..."


	6. Knock Knock, it's America

AN: Wow this took a while. Straight up, it was just a lot of writing. Part of it is due to actually doing shit in my unit, so there's that.

Am I following the story exactly? No, not really. But as far as reviews go, calm down guys. Blanket statement: No, the Empire didn't suddenly invent the musket. Similar, but it's really just a device for giving magic to the muggles.

Apollonir: Not mass production the way see it, but how the Romans would've seen it: A shit ton of metalsmiths pounding away throughout the nation. The real life ones did provide arms and equipment to conquer the Mediterranean, after all.

Faust: You won't have to worry about that. Yes, I am giving them a non-canon edge so it's not a straight, one-sided slaughter, but I'm taking into account that the magic/technology is _just now_ being invented. There can't be a radical change in equipment and tactics applied throughout the Legions. Even if there was... it's not like a company of ye olde Redcoats are going to have a chance against a bunch of pissed off, MG/mortar-supported grunts anyway.

EDIT: Oh God, it schmaleeted my line breaks when I imported. Added them back in...

* * *

"Professional X-Ray, this is Musketeer. We are within eyesight of the city. Time one-eight-zero-one. No enemies present. The city has received extensive damage. Burning buildings," Wooding reported.

The other members of the team had exited the carriage, covering the sides with their rifles. Spence, who had been on turn for steering, remained in his relatively high perch and covered the front sector. Wooding was gazing out the opening in the back as he operated the radio. The sky was darkening and the team would soon require night vision devices to maintain the advantage of sight over the enemy, but for now was clear enough to see unaided.

"Huh? What's going on? What's happened to the city?" Lelei asked, touching the lieutenant's hand to get his attention. Rory had stayed quiet the entire ride, but had been increasingly restless as they got closer and closer to the city. From what he had been told, this was unusual behavior from her; she was usually outgoing and pushy, bordering on obnoxious.

"City's on fire," he answered. "Stay in here, it's safe."

She complied, albeit reluctantly, and sat back down on the carriage's seat. Her eyes darted around the interior, and her hands couldn't stay still. Wooding turned his attention back to the radio. After what felt like a couple minutes of waiting, the radio sounded off.

Rory, meanwhile, had tried to get out of her seat, but Wooding motioned for her to stay down. He placed the handset back up to his ear. "Musketeer, this is Professional X-Ray. Roger. Get eyes on the situation. Over."

"This is Musketeer, roger. Are we allowed to break cover if mission dictates?"

Another minute of waiting.

"Musketeer, Professional X-Ray. Negative."

"This is Musketeer, roger. Out."

Wooding put the radio's handset back down on the radio. "Get back inside," he called to the two outside. As they squeezed into the small space, he took in a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.

"We're continuing the mission," he informed them. "We're going to try and get inside and stash the carriage somewhere. If we need to, we'll hide it outside and sneak in. For now we're staying under cover."

He opened a flap in the inner side of the carriage near the driver's seat, telling Spence to continue to the gate of the wall. The ride was silent, each member of the team listening intently for signs of an ambush. Borges sat by the opening, fingering his weapon but keeping it hidden underneath his cloak. He peered out into the darkening trail, watching for anyone who would attempt to follow them.

It felt an hour, but a quick look to his watch told Captain Wooding that it had been fifteen minutes. As would make sense, the doors to the gate remained sealed. He stepped out of the carriage, taking in the sight of the defenses. The stone wall was perhaps fifty feet tall, but he couldn't tell for sure in the dark. Pockmarks dotted the service from heavy offensive artillery, and smoke poured out from behind the structure, the glow of fires only amplifying the sight.

Around the base of the wall were dozens to over a hundred corpses, over half of them bearing the iconic red cape of their enemy. Broken ladders were strewn among the bodies, and the burning hulk of a battering ram laid off to the side of the road. The bodies were perhaps a day old at most.

Wooding heard a soft bump from behind him. He turned to see that Rory had let her weapon fall and impact the left bench of the carriage. "Keep that secure," he whispered harshly. "We don't need someone losing a leg."

She returned a harsh look but kept her mouth shut. Honestly, Wooding thought, he didn't care all that much what she thought so long as she followed directions. Finally, the carriage bumped to a stop and, after a verbal signal from Spence, Wooding climbed out of the carriage. "Flynn," he said, motioning with his hand for the weapons sergeant to accompany him.

He jogged up to the base of the gate, yelling in the native language for a guard to hear them.

"This gate is closed! Can't you see we're under attack?" a voice from the ramparts yelled back.

Wooding saw the man atop the stone wall, head covered by a dinged helmet but not much else in terms of armor. He wore simple villager's clothing, with a spear in his hand. He looked militia-trained at best. For the sake of the city, Wooding hoped he was a militiaman rather than a civilian suddenly pressed into service. "We need to enter the city," he said. "We might be attacked by the enemy army too! We have cargo!"

"We are under orders to remain sealed!" the guard answered.

"Well, they're smart enough," Wooding said to himself under his breath. Wouldn't be good to fall for a Trojan Horse were his team had happened to be one. Signaling for Spence to keep the carriage put, he went back to the vehicle. He dug underneath a blanket and into a bag, producing the radio's handset.

"Professional X-Ray, this is Musketeer. Over."

The response came after a couple of seconds. "Musketeer, this is X-Ray, over."

"This is Musketeer. I recommend a change of action. Requesting to break cover, over."

"This is X-Ray. Wait one, over."

This time, it took several minutes before the handset buzzed back on.

"Musketeer, this is Professional Six. What do you need again? Over."

"This is Musketeer. Requesting permission to break cover and provide assistance in the defense, over."

"This is Six. Negative, continue as planned. We do not have the information to act on, over."

"This is Musketeer. On our way over we passed by several bodies by the walls. Some were enemy mixed with civilian-clothed fighters. I believe them to be renegades after the fight on Sloppy Joe Hill. I think this city could be convinced to ally with us, over."

"This is Six. Are you positive enemy forces were attacking the city? Over."

"Roger," said Wooding. "None of the guards at the wall are fully equipped. They appear to be civilian militia. There were also enemy bodies around the walls with arrows in them, over."

"Musketeer, this is Six," came the reply after half a minute. "I'm going to trust you on this. You have permission to break cover and provide assistance. Over."

"Roger," Wooding replied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Out."

Wooding stepped back away from the carriage and again jogged to the gate, Flynn by his side, yelling for the guards' attention.

"We told you already!" one shouted. "No one is admitted! Step back or we will use force!"

Wooding slowed to a stop. "Have you heard of the Green Men?" he asked. "You could use our help, I think."

"Why would the Green Men help us?" one of the guards yelled, shaking his bow in plain view. "You invaded Imperial land!"

"I vouch for them," a female voice said from behind him. Wooding turned around to see Rory sauntering towards them, her massive ax resting on her shoulder as if it weighed nothing. He would need to talk to her about following directions, he thought to himself, but now wasn't the time to interrupt her. "And their desire to help. Whether you want to believe an apostle of Emroy is up to you."

The two guards above the gate retreated out of sight for a minute, seemingly discussing the issue with themselves. Wooding eyed the wall nervously, especially the slits from which arrows would be fired from the defenders' bows. He was especially vulnerable to arrows.

Although they had a sense of invulnerability, even to themselves, Wooding made sure to keep in mind the very real risk that an arrow could have even if he were wearing a ballistic vest. Plates protected only so much surface area, and arrows could pierce the kevlar padding with ease. If one were to be struck it would only be more difficult to remove the vest to operate without further disturbing the wound.

Fortunately, nothing happened to him. Instead, one of the guards reappeared over the edge of the gate. "Stay there," he announced. "It will be opened soon."

It wasn't according to plan, but it worked, Wooding thought. He turned to see Rory giving him a discreet smirk. He sighed and looked back up at the stone wall. He hoped they let his team in before it got pitch dark.

* * *

Petty Officer Second Class Guzman was a rather young man, but he took his job seriously enough. Orders were orders, so he set his men to work despite complaints of no time to rest after helping construct the defenses around Camp Arnus. He strolled through the small rut-roads of Coda village by the side of the village elder, listening to the man talk about the history of the village.

It was of utterly no concern to him.

He listened to the old man prattle on and on until they finally reached their destination, another of the buildings damaged a few weeks back during the dragon attack. The two stepped off the road as a truck ferrying steel beams trawled past, making sure to steer clear of local infrastructure and residents.

"So, about housing construction..." the old man finally said, catching Guzman's attention.

"Sorry, but we are only repairing buildings damaged by the dragon attack," Guzman said before the elder could try and weasel in a request.

"Alright," the man conceded. "We are in your debt, after all. Frankly, it's a gift that you all are dong this much."

Guzman nodded.

"And if you would excuse the ignorance, but the metal carriages your men ride in are much different now."

"They're Army," Guzman answered. "I am with the Navy and the men who fought the dragon were Marines, who are part of the Navy."

A quizzical look plastered itself on the elder's face. "Navy? But there's no ocean anywhere near here!"

"It's because of the Gate. The Marines were the first people ready so they came in first. The Army is a lot bigger so they take longer to prepare."

"Interesting," the man said.

"Yeah I know it's weird," Guzman conceded.

"But why are those metal carriages different? The Legii and Clasii use the same equipment for their infantry, I think."

Guzman took a mental note of that. The enemy seemed _very_ styled after ancient Rome, and it became ever more apparent the more he learned about them. "The Marine vehicles with the big wheels can actually float, so they can attack from the sea," he explained, enticing a small gasp from the old man. "The Army's tan vehicles have better armor and weapons though because they're supposed to fight more."

"Mhm, interesting," noted the village elder.

Guzman kept walking with him. Something told him this wasn't all for the tiny village of Coda.

* * *

Wooding was getting impatient. He paced in front of the gate, listening for any sign of someone coming to let them in. Leilei was standing a few meters from the gate, staring at him curiously, while Rory herself was antsy, occasionally taking deep breaths to calm herself. Spence, Borges, and Flynn had brought the carriage in closer to the gate and had formed a loose semicircle around it, scanning for any last-minute threats.

Wooding stepped up to the door and opened his mouth to speak before he heard hurried footsteps from the other side.

"Hel- FUCK!"

The door, built into the massive wooden gate, forcefully swung open, smacking against his forehead, sending him crashing to the ground.

"Greet- BY IUPIT!" Princess Pina screamed upon seeing her downed guest, her arms outstretched from shoving the door open, ornate but scratched and dented armor encasing her slender form. Her small face, framed by bright red hair, was frozen in shock, staring at the downed Green Man, who was still on his back, rubbing away the pain. "Uhm, uh..."

"Is that how we treat guests, Princess?" a young woman asked.

"I, uh, well," the princess managed before she raised her eyes. As she saw who had spoken she could have sworn she felt her heart stop. In front of her was Rory, Apostle of the God of Darkness, her halberd resting against her shoulder. And she just smacked her compatriot with a door.

One of the men walked over to the one on the ground and offered him a hand, pulling him onto his feet. He said something to one of the others by the carriage behind them in another language she didn't understand, enticing a poorly suppressed laugh from them.

"Alright, let's get to business," he said to her, suppressing further chuckles. "Let's go inside?"

Pina nodded her head in agreement, swaying her arm towards the opening to motion them inside. She would have to be careful, she thought, to make up for the poor first impression.

"Excuse me, but we need to take our carriage in. It has important equipment," one of them said.

"That is fine," she relented, signaling for a guard to open the gate. It was a risk, she told herself, but after the reports of the fighting on Alnus Hill, if they wanted to harm the city, that would have happened already. The fact that they were talking told her that they were on her side, at least for the time being. After a few minutes of work, the gate opened and the carriage was brought in. As they gathered around her she took a deep breath, calming herself. "You said you are some of the Green Men, correct? Or Men in Green?"

"Yes, ma'am," the man she knocked down replied. "I am Captain Wooding of the United States Army. With me are Sergeant Flynn, Sergeant Borges, Sergeant Spence, Leilei la Leina of Coda Village, and, as you might know, Rory."

Pina gave a slight bow to Rory as the Apostle of Emroy was introduced. "I am Pina Co Lada, Princess of the Empire, leader of the Rose-Order of Knights. I am leading the defense of this city."

"You have a plan then?" Lieutenant Wooding asked, reaching into his clothing and producing a small, green square. He pulled at the edges, revealing it to be a small pad of paper.

"Yes," she answered, "yes I do."

* * *

The six watched from the ramparts as the city continued to burn. It was not a serious attack, he felt. No heavy artillery, no massive formations. It seemed to be just a raid to keep the defenders from resting and regrouping. Or maybe it was a raiding force aiming to open the gates for the rest of the army in hiding.

Regardless, despite the light attacking force was running the civilian militia ragged. They had managed to take the wall, forcing the defenders off into the city streets.

Wooding sighed. "They didn't take the bait, I see."

"Kinda shitty to use guys who just volunteered to help as bait anyway," Spence said.

Flynn cleared his throat. "She was right, by accident. We're probably worth all the guards she has over there." He paused for a second. "Although I know she didn't give a fuck about getting guys she just met killed."

"They're not going to hold," Borges announced from his perch up in a guard tower. "They breached the front gate."

"Oh..." Wooding heard. He turned to see Rory nearly squirming on the ground, her limbs wringing around her body.

"Uh, you alright?"

"As an Apostle of Emroy," she managed before her feelings overtook her breath for a second, "all nearby souls lost in battle pass through me to the afterlife."

"So that means..."

"The only way to relieve these feelings is to join in myself."

Wooding kept staring at her. "Not really what I-"

"Or," she slurred, "there's other means to help..."

"Yeah OK, fighting it is," Wooding concluded before Rory could finish the thought. "Flynn, set up some 'deterrents' with C4. You, Leilei, and Borges stay here in case something happens. Radio up if we need to come back. Spence, grab your SAW. We and Rory are heading in."

"I can hear them ahead," Spence noted. He lead on point, his SAW at the shoulder, just waiting for an enemy to pop into view.

The narrow streets of the city's residential district made him feel claustrophobic. The Americans' advantage was range. Here, anyone could get the jump on them, giving him minimal time to react. Although, he thought to himself, this is hardly different from Iraqi cities I've been to.

He didn't know if that thought settled or further agitated him. Healed wounds in his left leg still itched occasionally.

Wooding was following close by, his off-hand on the back of Spence's kit, as the city had grown too dark to see easily in. They had donned night vision devices, giving them a distinct advantage over any foe they might meet, but it was still far from a perfect image. His other hand tightened around his rifle, finger hovering over the trigger well, his thumb ready to flip the safety off.

They didn't have to travel too long, it felt like, although it was quite the distance from one gate to another, about a quarter of the perimeter away. It was then that they met their first enemy, a couple of lone swordsmen stalking through the narrow streets, looking for easy prey in their bloodlust. They were easily dispatched by a few short bursts from Spence's SAW.

* * *

Corporal Nash was already at the tank by the time Sergeant Warren arrived. "You're on this tank, right?"

"Roger, Sar'nt," Nash replied, looking up from his work. At his feet were the mounted weapons: two M240Bs and an M2A1 .50 caliber machine gun. He was mounting one of the 240s onto the assembly by the loader's hatch, with one of the pins half-way in. Around his chest was a leather chest holster containing an M9 pistol. "Guerrero and Moreno are loader and driver. They're getting POL."

"What's the status on the tank?" Warren asked, hopping up onto the tank. He grabbed the .50 and lifted it onto the tank commander mount. It went in easily enough, the pins sliding smoothly into place.

"We need to hit the grease points and engine fluids. Nothing looks fucked up so we should be alright after a quick by-the-book PMCS."

Warren nodded, taking in the information. Hopefully his new gunner was right. The hit time was 0500 the next day, and his crew would need all the sleep they could get. Considering they were used by the National Guard on a monthly basis, they should have been in working order.

"So what's the plan?" Nash asked. "All I've heard is zero-five be redcon one-point-five."

Warren scratched at his chin, trying to remember the details he was briefed. "Uh, five thirty we're out the gate. We're gonna boresight once the sun comes up, we screen, and we're off to war."

Nash didn't reply. He dropped into the turret, bringing his machine gun with him. Unlike the infantry configuration, the M240B given to tankers was streamlined for use as a coaxial weapon. The stock and grip were replaced by small nubs which allowed them to be fitted inside the mount, and the barrel had its handle and head shielding removed.

The sound of footsteps caught Warren's attention. He looked back to the front slope to see two men. One, a specialist placing six or so cans of turboshaft on the rough surface. Next to him stood another with a large 5 gallon oil drum in one hand, and as many grease tubes as possible under the other arm.

A fuzzy. A private fresh out of basic training.

Warren cursed internally. This was probably his first time on a tank since then; a hell of a time to actually learn his job. The specialist, Guererro, hopped up onto the tank and began ferrying up the supplies without regarding him.

"Uh, hi," Warren said.

"Sar'nt," he replied, bending back down to grab the oil can off the fuzzy. "I guess I'm your new loader," he said after a few moments."

"I think I say what job you have," said Warren. He grabbed the oil can and placed it into the corner of the bustle rack, fitting it neatly with one of the tank's chock blocks.

"Trust me, he's good," he heard Nash yell down from inside the turret.

Warren took another look at Guererro who was not paying any mind to Warren, instead focusing on balancing the grease tubes in his hand. "Almost double fed that bitch last gunnery."

"What?"

"I was driving at the time and our gunner got two bad lases in a row and hit it on the third time," Nash explained, lifting himself out of the commander's hatch, swinging his legs over the edge of the copula and grabbed the spare M240 barrels. "I had good defilade time and he had good loading so we turned a 60 point engagement into a 94."

As Nash dropped back into the turret, Guererro simply shrugged. "What can I say? Oh, you know if we're getting smoke grenades?"

"No, we're not," Warren answered. "Just seven-six-two, fifty, and main gun."

"Alright then." Guererro stepped over to the side of the turret near the loader's hatch and opened the small metallic box bolted to the armor. He placed six of the grease tubes inside and latched it closed before repeating the process on the other side.

"What's the other guy's name again?" asked Warren.

"Moreno."

"Hey, Moreno!"

"Yes, sergeant?" the fuzzy replied immediately.

Warren tossed down the tank's two plastic water cans. "Go grab water and MREs. Two boxes should be good."

"Yes, sergeant," Moreno replied, grabbing the cans and turning towards the motorpool's water point.

"And stop with the 'yes sergeant' 'no sergeant' shit," Warren added. "Just say 'OK' and move."

"Yes, sergeant."

Warren sighed. "Jesus Christ."

* * *

"There they are," Spence said. It was a fierce melee. An area the size of a four-lane road had devolved into a brawl, men everywhere beating and stabbing and cutting and tearing. The raiders, trained soldiers, had the clear advantage. The civilian militia were being beaten back easily, many lying dead in the street, while a group of raiders readied themselves for a charge.

He could feel her eagerness as much as he could see the signs of it as he turned to see Rory squat, seemingly ready to literally jump into the fray, which he was sure she was quite capable of doing. "Not yet," he said.

He instead raised his rifle and began to pick off individual enemies. They crumpled as he hit their abdomens and chests, taking more care to score hits than clean kills. Others quickly noticed their fallen brethren, swinging their heads wildly until Wooding, Spence, and Rory were spotted.

Spence raised his weapon and took aim at the large, isolated group of raiders. He let loose several bursts, taking most of the men out of the fight, some dying immediately, most not. Wooding took a knee and started taking out more as they turned to run towards him. The confusion had given the militia the chance to escape. Some tried to continue the fight, but any caught in one-on-one fights were quickly taken out.

"Ok, Rory, have fun."

He felt a brush of air against the back of his neck. Seconds later, far above him, he heard booming, pitched laughter as her arc peaked, bringing her crashing down into the group of men charging the two Americans. They bounced away as if struck by a powerful explosion.

What happened next could not be easily described to Wooding by his eyes. If he had one word to use for the series of images his brain gathered, it would be a dance. Torches carried by the fighters, both enemy and friendly and dropped on the ground by the dead, flew into the air. Streetlights, their flames suspended in a glass box held by a chain, swung wildly. Flames flickered into and out of life as she jumped around the battlefield at impossible speeds, air displacement playing with the fragile nature of the lights.

The two Americans couldn't watch her move. She was too fast, simply a blur on their night vision, and by the naked eye she was a series of stills illuminated by the inconsistent lighting.

Blood flew. It arced. It splashed and it rained. It was something out of a horror movie to Wooding. Bodies hit the ground hard, armor banging on the ground. Decapitated heads went in opposite directions from limbless torsos. Her peals of laughter pounded against his ears as if she were right next to him. They unsettled him. The sound gave him the shakes as if he hadn't eaten for a week, made his hands lose their grip.

In an instant, everything froze. The lights steadied. Rory stood there, in the middle, drenched in blood. She stamped her foot and the blood ran off her. It came out of her clothes as if it was never absorbed during the fighting. It formed a puddle around her feet that slipped off into the cobblestone road.

A smile tugged at her lips. "Shall we continue?"

* * *

Emperor Molt appraised the wooden and steel construction before picking it up off the table. He hefted it in his hands, feeling the balance and overall weight. He held it as he would hold a crossbow, and it was rather front-heavy, but manageable.

"Feels different than what I'm used to," he observed, mostly to himself, but his adviser felt the need to explain.

"It requires thicker materials in order to contain the energy, my lord." He held his hand out and Molt gave the weapon over. "Pure iron is required to keep the energy in line, and needs a certain thickness to resist the heat."

"How does this work?"

"You simply unscrew the chamber seal here," he demonstrated, giving the piece to Molt. "There is a rod of silver inside that moves the magical energy from the hammer's catalyst to the munition itself."

"How does that happen?" Molt asked, examining the chamber seal carefully. It was an inch thick screw with a ring at the back for aid with extracting. A nub of silver stuck out the right side, and as he moved the crossbow-like trigger rod, it rotated another piece. Fully squeezed, the hammer impacted the silver nub.

"A small sleeve of oric is fitted onto the hammer," the adviser explained. "It goes out in a puff of smoke, sending its magical energy through the silver and into the munition itself. The munition reacts, sending a beam of pure magical energy into the target."

"How far does this reach?"

"Within a few hundred yards," he answered. "It dissipates over distance. I believe this to be it dispersing its energy as it comes into contact with the air. You can in fact see the beam of magic as it releases energy on its way in a similar manner that a piece of metal at a forge glows."

He reached over and plucked a small, purple cylinder from the table from a small box on a table.

"If you will allow me, my lord, for a demonstration."

Molt complied, handing the prototype weapon back to the alchemist. Held up the object. "This is powdered altechum. We found it too painstaking to properly carve, so we ground it and compacted it. It cements like lime, so we added water and let it dry for the sake of durability."

"Now, my lord, is the effect on a target." He inserted the altechum cylinder into the chamber of the weapon and screwed the seal back in. He too a small sleeve of oric, a dark metallic substance, and fitted it onto the hammer. He held the weapon up to his shoulder and closed his hand until the hammer made contact with the nub.

A loud crack not unlike that of a whip sounded, seemingly slapping Molt in the ears. A pink rod of light was produced, traveling as fast as an arrow until it reached its target, a straw man with a cheap steel breastplate. As the smoke cleared, Molt walked up to the target to observe the weapon's effects. First, he noticed, was that the straw had caught on fire, engulfing the entire target in flames. The armor had a small hole melted through it the width of the smallest finger, with molten material dripping down the surface of the plate.

"Yes," he said to himself. "This will do nicely."

* * *

The open plaza that surrounded the gate's inner opening was full of men, living and dead, that congested the area to the point that a front line simply did not exist. More experienced defenders had set up defenses, Wooding saw, and were holding the bulk of the raiders back, but the flanks were falling quickly. The street he had stepped out from was in the center of the chaos.

Like before, he set himself to work, putting down men one after another as Rory rushed into the fray. Too close for comfort, he thought. A rifle's strength lay in its range. He looked up at the buildings around him and noticed they were all at minimum three floors tall.

"Spence! Up the stairs!" he yelled, gesturing to the storefront right next to him.

The gunner wasted no time, simply kicking in the door, rushing into the front room, weapon up for threats. None were present and he proceeded up the stairs to take a position in an upper window. He backed in to follow and secure the way up, but his rifle ran dry. As he hurriedly ejected the magazine and reached for a fresh one, an enemy soldier rounded a corner and jumped at him.

Wooding barely managed to dodge in time, stumbling back on his knees before regaining his footing. The assailant before him looked almost straight out of a movie of ancient Rome. He had an underlayer of mail armor, and strips of steel encased his torso and draped over his shoulders, albeit larger and looser than the historical equivalent. His helmet lacked a plume, leading Wooding to believe him one of the front-line 'joes' of the Imperial army.

The man's right arm, wielding a short gladius, lunged at Wooding, who countered with his left, swinging it out and exposing the enemy's chest. A fighting knife in his right hand, he in turn stabbed towards the assailant's chest. The plate deflected the blow, leaving a line-shaped dent rather than a clean hole, and his wrist was grabbed in turn, leading to a stalemate as the two tried to wrestle their arms away.

Wooding kicked at the enemy's knee, knocking him down but the vice grip on his arm did not loosen. They rolled as he landed, the enemy ending up on top, who freed his sword arm and raised it for a strike. Wooding quickly punched at his face, slightly disorienting him, allowing Wooding to kick the man off before the sword could be put to deadly effect. The two stood back up, back at the beginning of their fight.

Finally afforded space, Wooding simply drew his sidearm and shot the man until he fell down.

He calmly stepped over to his rifle and picked it up. He breathed in deeply and caught his breath. He took a magazine out of his webbing and stuck it inside the rifle's magazine well. He noticed the bolt had been jarred forwards, so he pulled it back and released, chambering the next round.

He took the steps two at a time and searched the rooms until he found the one his partner was located in, who had set up a table a meter back from the window, concealing his position from those below. He peered out the window and saw the work Rory was doing on those trying to enter the city. It wasn't the same as it was back in the streets. It was slower, more deliberate, more believable. She still maintained her incredible acrobatics, jumping from the tops of men's shields to stab them from above, or dodge and weave between spear and sword thrusts to easily dismember those who tried to harm her.

Even from his high position he saw as she was cut and stabbed, but her wounds did little to slow her down. He didn't even think he saw her bleed, and that the weapons had no effect on her, but it was hard for him to tell from the distance and fro the enemy's blood.

Perhaps she was tired and used the bulk of her energy in that first fight, or just that she had a sudden rush of energy she didn't have right then, but Wooding didn't particularly care to find out. The less he knew, he thought, the better.

"Spence," he called. "I think it's secured down on the ground." He gestured up to the walls and said, "Aim at the battlements. Clear them and we should be golden."

"Professional X-Ray, this is Musketeer, over."

"Musketeer, this is Professional X-Ray. Over."

The signal was quiet, but clear. It was a rather straight shot from Sloppy Joe Hill to the city, after all, with no major terrain features between the two. The signal reached a retransmission post at a halfway point between the two areas, extending the range of the man-carried radios significantly.

Below his perch on the eastern gate, townsfolk preformed the morbid task of collecting the dead, both friendly and enemy. It was easily in the upper hundreds. The stink reached him, but he managed to put it out of his mind for the time being. Spence sat against the battlement, out fast, but easy to wake, his SAW resting on his lap with the sling wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Rory, too, was resting, her massive weapon leaning on her shoulder. She paid little attention to those around her. She let her head tilt back, taking in the air and sounds of the environment around her. It creeped Wooding out. She wasn't sleeping. She was… meditating.

With a sigh, he raised the handmic to his mouth. "Professional X-Ray, Musketeer. Status report. City secured as of two-tree-tree-zero. Local forces securing perimeter. Zero Musketeer casualties, over."

"Musketeer, this is Professional X-Ray. Copy all. Continue to advise and assist, over."

"Roger, uh, status on reinforcements? Over."

"This is X-Ray, ten hours out. Expect two platoons tanks, two companies Bradleys, two companies AAVs, one company LAVs, four Cobra gunships. Over."

"Professional X-Ray, Musketeer, status on fires?"

"Musketeer, X-Ray, negative."

"Roger. Out."

* * *

"Alright, Third, listen up," the lieutenant announced. In front of him sat the entirity of the element, from the LAV-25 crews to the dismounted scouts. "We have another op."

A simultaneous " _fuck_ " was muttered from every Marine in front of him.


	7. Armored Fist

A/N:

Aurain Orimura: They don't "suddenly have" magic rifles. They have a single working prototype that is hot off the workshop and has yet to be field tested or have production began throughout Imperial workshops.

Wack12: No they have a spent 5.56 cartridge a survivor of Sloppy Joe Hill brought back to his commander. All it did, as it said in the story, was give them the idea of a disposable magic source that pops in and out.

Yoda: If you really loved it you wouldn't drop out after a subplot that's been brewing for 2 chapters and has yet for me to actually take it anywhere.

* * *

"Company, atten _tiuh_!"

The voice of First Sergeant of Alpha Troop, Fourth Squadron, Fourth Cavalry Regiment boomed across the open motorpool. His voice reverberated across the pavement, faintly ringing in the ears of the men as it echoed. He smartly about-faced, and as Captain Minh jogged up in front of him, they exchanged crisp salutes. The First Sergeant jogged out from in front of the formation and the commander stepped forwards to replace him.

"Stand at," he announced, and the platoon sergeants repeated the command to their elements. "Ease."

The men relaxed their stances, feet spread, hands behind their backs. All eyes moved towards their commander. The man took a second, taking in the sight in front of him, and said, "Gentlemen, we are one of two armored companies in this division. The only one in this brigade. Let me tell you, we are very fucking important people. The forces we're fighting are nothing close to our level, so a proper armored force is neither required nor practical. However, the tanks we have are vital to the mission. You've all heard the stories of our fellow tankers, our brothers in the Marines, what they fought and what they accomplished."

He began pacing in front of his men slightly, looking at a few in their eyes.

"It is imperative that we maintain their spirit and drive. We must not get sloppy and overconfident, and we must not relent. The enemy will be killed very easily. They will die in huge numbers. It won't feel like a fight. It might question your morals and it might feel like murder. But remember that there's no choice in the matter."

He stopped his pacing in the center, in front of his men.

"They invaded our streets. They decide to fight. And now, they have decided to raid one of their own cities in a fit of banditry and murder. Our technological superiority does not negate this. Our moral stance does not change because we're better at the game. We are not hiding themselves. If they want to jump in front of our guns, that's their choice."

He took another look at the men in front of him. Old and young, fresh and crusty. Experience ranged from fresh privates to seasoned tankers who had seen their share in Iraq. "Company, at _ten_ tion!" The formation snapped back to the position of attention, as rigid as columns of stone. "First Sergeant."

The old NCO came back up to his place and saluted. Minh saluted back, releasing command of the formation. The First Sergeant stepped forwards.

"The commander's exactly right. Anything that happens is with those assholes' permission. We re not barbarians. We take prisoners. If they want to quit, they will have every opportunity. But if they don't, that's their choice." He straightened his posture. "Company, atten _tiuh_! Platoon sergeants, take command of your platoons! Get ready to roll!"

With a final salute, the platoons dismissed. The mechanics went to their M88 recovery vehicles and light wheeled support vehicles, and tankers to their tanks. Sergeant Warren's tank was neatly packed. Medium rucks, which were more assault packs with frames than they were full ruck sacks, were neatly packed into the bustle rack at the rear of the turret, wrapped by a sand-colored tarp in what they called a 'burrito roll.' Extra small arms ammunition filled the rest of the space, and extra POL, petroleum/oils/lubricants, filled the corner sections.

Moreno crawled into the driver hole in the hull, worming his way underneath the bulk of the main gun, while Nash dropped down through the commander hatch and slid his way into the gunner hole. Warren and Guererro dropped into their places at the commander and loader stations respectively. Warren fumbled with his CVC, grabbing at the end of the cable and plugging it into the turret. "Everyone up?"

Guererro gave a thumb up sign, Nash a "yup," and Moreno a "here."

Warren thumbed the transmit button on his CVC. "Four, this is three, we're up, over."

A second later, the two-tank repeated the message, followed by the one-tank. "Four, copy all," the platoon sergeant announced over the net.

The one tank came in over the radio, saying, "All tanks, go to redcon-1 status. Over."

"Uh, what's that?" Moreno asked.

"Start up the tank," Guererro replied. "How fuckin' new are you?"

"Really," the driver answered.

Warren saw Guererro shrug. _Fair enough_. A second later they heard the whine of the turbine power up, a small, high pitched noise that kicked into a roar after a few seconds. Warren watched with concern as black smoke followed the exhaust, but as the engine continued as it should, he ignored it.

Nash spoke up next. "Hey, set your J-box listening to intercom. Only loader and TC need the radio. We can't get confused on orders."

"Ok."

Over the radio, the commander's voice sounded. "All Destroyer elements, Destroyer Six. Order of march, First, Second, Headquarters, Eighty-Eights, Third. On your go, First. Over."

With that the vehicles began rolling one after another towards the battlefield.

* * *

The raiders marched in straight, steady formations. They weren't in step, but that hardly mattered on the battlefield, and their skill and discipline impressed itself on the defenders so plainly that the four Musketeers could see it on their faces. They stretched across the horizon. As a consequence of their formation, they were spread out, giving off the impression of larger numbers than they really had. Although, Wooding felt, it was still an impressive number of bodes.

The first blocks of the formation eventually reached within the hundred and fifty meter kill zone of the defenders' bows. They were hardly accurate at that range, but en mass, they were a potent area weapon. Men were waiting behind the walls as well, ready to loose their arrows, but were waiting on a signal. They had to fire at a higher angle to shoot over the wall, shortening their maximum range. The men on the walls, whether manning ballistas or bows, began unleashing hell on the raiders.

Or, at least, they intended to. Wooding watched as the arrows, bolts, and baseball-sized stones bounced off of thin air in a rough dome shape over the heads of the enemy. "Oh, shit," he said under his breath. "They're not doing shit."

The raiders reformed themselves as the projectiles hit the shield, coming together in a denser formation, raising their shields above their heads. They're smart, he thought. Better to prepare for if that shield breaks than not.

The six of them-the Musketeers, Leilei, and Rory-were perched on the roof of the tallest building near the wall which gave them a view of the field, the gate, and the defenses inside the city itself. "Borges, Flynn, Rory. I'm gonna have you guys go down there pretty soon. The walls are not gonna hold."

The three nodded, Flynn picking up the SAW and bandoleer of belt containers.

Wooding turned to Leilei. "What can you tell me about the magical defense they have?"

"It's a spell," she answered. She peered towards the slight green glow of the spellcaster. "Instead of stopping the projectiles, it's redirecting them. It's more complicated to cast, but more efficient."

"So you have to be strong to get through then?" Wooding asked.

Leilei nodded. "Or heavy."

"How easy would it be to overpower the field?"

"Normally spells are powered by the mage's mana, so it wouldn't take long. But with a shield that size..." She thought for a second. "There has to be an external power source for the redirection field to be that large."

"So don't count on it," he concluded. He scanned the formation ahead of him. Each block of men had a spellcaster in the middle, carrying a staff which emitted a soft green glow. "These guys came prepared. They've got a mage in each formation."

"That's impossible!" Leilei exclaimed. "There's no way they could have gathered so many powerful magic users in one army, let alone skilled enough to cast a redirection field!"

He handed her the binoculars. "See for yourself."

She stuck them up to her face, squinting and trying to readjusting them to see better. He reached over and picked them out of her hands, flipping them over. "Small lens to your eye."

"Uh, oh, right." She studied the scene for several minutes, sweeping back and forth. "I was right," she said.

"What's going on then?"

"They're extending the range of the spell."

"Huh?"

"Look at the very middle."

He looked for the block of men. In the center of it was one magic user with plumes of feathers coming out of parts of her skin. Some kind of half-human. But the most important part was the staff she was wielding, which was much larger than the others'. Its glow was also different. Rather than an ethereal sphere-like shape, its was more like a tree, its branches growing towards the different formation blocks.

"So she's doing the spell, and is just bouncing it off the others," he said. "Any idea on how she's getting that power though?"

"She's a siren," Leilei informed. "They are skilled at environmental magic, so if I were to guess, from the residual aura of the army around her."

Wooding nodded. "I see. So take her out, and we take out their trump card."

"What's a trump card?"

* * *

Warren and Guererro were half out of their hatches, eyes watching the fray up on the city walls. The tanks were at a steady pace, one after another. Next to them one hundred meters away were a couple Marine companies of AAVs carrying infantry. Ahead of the vehicles was a long berm running perpendicular to the city's walls, along the flank of the enemy formation. With the vegetation and wet ground underneath them, there were no large dust trails in their wake, hiding their advance from the enemy.

The AAVs peeled off, heading for the southern gate of Italica. To his right, the Bradleys halted their advance, reforming into a massive line formation parallel to the enemy's flank. The tanks turned to the right and followed the berm. Eventually they had all lined up and formed a battalion wide formation, tanks up front with Bradleys in the middle, mortar carriers and support vehicles in the rear.

* * *

The AH-1Z Viper flew over the treetops, rippling leaves forming a wake as though they were watercraft. Miles ahead they could see Italica in the dawn's light, as well as the smoke rising from the buildings within the walls' perimeter. As they got closer they could clearly see the enemy's formation, laid out plainly in neat blocks as it assaulted the city. According to the plan, friendly forces had not opened up, waiting far beyond the reach of the enemy at around two kilometers away.

"Well shit, that doesn't look good," the copilot commented, staring down at the enemy forces storming the city. Climbing over their own dead, in some cases literally, they had already gotten a foothold on the top of the wall. Arrows fired en masse by blocks of archers kept the defenders' heads down while the swordsmen had breathing room to set up ladders and ropes to scale the stone wall. He watched as men were shot by arrows from tiny portholes or burned by hot oil, but the raiders were making progress.

"Well, time to hit it," the pilot replied, handing back a small rectangular device. His compatriot nodded and plugged it into a small cord while powering up the main system through a couple of jerry-rigged switches.

"Wait," muttered the copilot as he examined the small screen on the device. "This isn't what they told us to play."

The pilot held up his hand, pointing to his head with his index finger. "Look at me, man, look at me." He shook his finger a couple times in exaggeration. "Do I _look_ like I give a fuck?"

"Point taken," replied the copilot. He selected the first item on the screen and pressed the center button.

* * *

"Holy shit, are they playing Danger Zone?" Guererro asked, lifting the ear muff of his CVC to better hear the sound coming from the approaching Vipers. He noticed that they, indeed, _were_ playing that particular song, and burst into a fit of laughter. "Holy shit, this is amazing. Oh fuck."

Warren couldn't help but laugh too. He had spotted the large, boxy speakers mounted to he skids of the helicopters with his binoculars. He expected something cliché, like Ride of the Valkyries, but was pleasantly surprised. "Oh my God, you're right."

"All Destroyer elements, this is Six. Prepare to engage." Immediately afterwards came the acknowledgments from the platoon leaders.

"White, White One, you guys got that?"

"One, Three, roger," Warren answered. He then heard the Two and Four tanks broadcast their acknowledgments.

He turned to his loader and said, "Alright, man, let's see how good you are. I'm gonna time you. Load OR on 'boom.' Don't actually arm it though."

Guererro nodded, grabbed the breach operating handle, and opened the breach. He turned his back to the turret wall, his left arm resting on the arming lever, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Warren reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening up a timer. "Boom!"

Without hesitation, Guererro made the motion of slamming the arming lever downwards and pressed his knee into the switch underneath the ammo door. Once the door opened to the point that the round he wanted was fully exposed, he unlocked it and slipped it out, easing his knee off and letting the door close. He flipped the round over, pivoting it over his left hand as the tip of the round missed the turret ceiling by a hair's width. The tip of the round fell square into the slide. He immediately reached back and rammed the round home with a flat right hand, fingers out of the way of the aft cap's rim.

Hardly a second after he let go of the knee switch, the door finally closed and he leaned back into his station, his left hand pretending to flip the arming lever upwards. "Up!"

Warren hit his screen at the same time. He turned his phone to Guererro.

"Four nine? Fuck, I'm losing my touch."

* * *

"Gunheads, this is Musketeer, over."

"Musketeer, this is Gunhead Actual. Send it, over."

"Roger, uh, enemy has taken the wall. They've captured stationary artillery. Take it out, would you, over."

"This is Gunhead Actual, yeah we got it, over."

"Roger, just be careful of friendlies behind the wall. Out."

The pilot looked down at the wall, at the swarming raiders. It had indeed been captured, with enemy archers preparing to climb up the base as to fire at the defenders inside the walls. He looked closer, and saw that men were manning five-foot wooden constructions in the shape of gigantic crossbows, several of which were being aimed at him.

"Gunheads, this is Actual," he said over the radio to the other three Vipers. "I'm gonna hit the wall."

"Two, roger."

"Four, roger."

"Three, roger."

The Gunheads had their name for a particular reason. In Afghanistan they had run several missions in support of Marine and Army infantry near-exclusively using their autocannons unless requested otherwise. Their proficiency and accuracy with the weapon had given them a reputation of exceptional accuracy and lethality, giving support at several points so close that their missile pods were impossible to use without endangering friendly lives.

Gunhead Actual put his reputation to good use, bringing his bird parallel to the wall, the angle of the blades giving it a slight drift forwards. He eased down the trigger on his control stick and rounds began to fly, tearing up the stonework that made up the surface of the wall. Most of the targets were torn by the explosive rounds, limbs flying, tumbling and turning in the air, but several attempted to jump off the wall, taking their chances with gravity rather than the flying steel beasts.

"Musketeer, this is Gunhead Two, you want runs on those guys inside? Over."

"Two, this is Musketeer, negative, we've, uh, we've got this, over."

"Uh, aaand roger. Out."

* * *

Rory was, to put it bluntly, having a field day. The eastern gate was open and raiders had streamed in. Many on the walls who had a modicum of skill were holding captured bows, and were attempting to picking off defenders as they hid behind six foot palisades or rushed to engage the raiders.

Borges was several feet back from the window, hiding himself from the sight of the bowmen, firing and moving back further out of sight. He stepped forwards again and dropped another swordsman who had an angle on Rory. Flynn was in the process of reloading the SAW. He finally dropped the belt onto the feed tray and slammed the cover closed. He stepped up to the window and leaned the bipod against the windowsill for support and strafed the raiders engaging the militia who had formed a front line against them. Dozens of rounds hit home, cutting down the targets, allowing the defenders to regain their footing.

Back from the front line was Rory, dancing around, between, and even on the attackers. She slashed and parried, dodged and stabbed, blocked and crushed her opponents as they went for her. Wounds disappeared almost instantaneously, leaving tattered clothing over flawless skin. It left Borges to wonder why men would fight on even then, against (in this case) literally impossible odds, but then he remembered that the Taliban had, indeed, fought back against him.

Even with their assistance, however, the bulk of the enemy were alive both inside and outside the walls. They had streamed through the gate and over the walls, and were dispersing throughout the city. Without conventional support the city was, frankly, doomed.

And then the Vipers hit.

It was a spectacular show.

* * *

"All Avenger elements, Avenger Six. Crest the berm, over."

"Here we go," Guererro said.

"Moreno," Warren said, "move up to the berm."

Moreno complied, switching the gear into drive. The tank rolled forwards and began to creep up the slope, crawling and causing a noticeable shake with each track pad as they touched the ground.

"Alright, stop- Jesus!" Warren yelped as Moreno applied the brakes too quickly. He quickly massaged the rib that had impacted the edge of his hatch. "Careful, fuck."

"Do that in gunnery, man. Please," Nash scolded.

Before Moreno could reply, the commander came back on over the radio. "All destroyer elements, engage at will."

Nash took an audible breath over the intercom and said, "Al-fuckin-right."

"Arm it."

Guererro climbed back down into his station and leaned back into the wall of the turret. His left arm flicked the arming level upwards. "Up!"

A thud was felt in the turret as the tank next to them fired, kicking up dust that had settled throughout the turret. Warren cleared his throat. "Fire!"

"On the way."

 _THUMP_

* * *

Captain Minh stared at the effect on target through binoculars, sitting on the edge of his hatch. He had allowed his gunner to fire a round for the hell of it, but he had to watch the battlefield to direct his men. At first, he had thought that his company's rounds were missing. Nothing touched the enemy troops. But he refused to believe that; they were veteran tankers (mostly), and they had boresighted that morning. The chances of all nine of the other present tanks were missing every shot was minuscule.

After three rough volleys, his tanks had stopped firing on their own as they noticed the problem as well.

"Cease fire!" He said over the company net. "Cease fire!"

He switched to his section net.

"Five, Six. Why aren't our rounds connecting? No way everyone's missed."

"Six, Five, no idea."

"Six, Blue One. Uh, what's going on, over."

"Blue One, Six, wait one. Over," Minh replied. He cursed under his breath. As he observed more closely, he noticed a barrage of arrows launch from behind the walls. He traced their path and watched as they bounced off above the heads of the advancing troops.

"Wally," he said to his gunner. "I'm gonna have you shoot one more time. Zoom out and watch your thermals. Tell me what happens."

He ducked back into the turret. No use in getting blasted by the shockwave and dust. With an "On the way," the gun sounded.

"You catch anything?" he asked.

"Roger, sir. Round just bounced. Like skipping rocks off water."

He switched his channel to the battalion net. "Musketeer, Destroyer Six Six, over."

After a second, the radio sounded in reply. "Destroyer Six, this is Musketeer One. I read you, over."

"Roger, switch to freq five-five-zero, S-C-P-T, over," he advised. Considering the technological backwardness of their enemy, the battalion had been allowed to use unencrypted radio channels for specific occasions. He didn't want to block the battalion net with his conversation. He turned to look at his loader, motioning to the radios in front of him. "Set Alpha to five-five-zero, plain."

His loader nodded, complying. Less than a minute later the Special Forces team messaged a radio check.

"Musketeer One, Destroyer Six, read you clear. What do you know about magic here? Why are my rounds bouncing? Over."

"Destroyer Six, Musketeer, our source says they have a mage setting up a barrier. Each formation has another one acting as a sort of re-trans station for it. Over."

"Musketeer, Six, how the hell does it stop over twenty tank rounds, over?"

"Six, Musketeer, it redirects them. More energy efficient. Magician is a Siren. Local says they are skilled with environmental magic. Over."

"Musketeer, Six, roger. So how do we kill it? Over."

"Six, Musketeer, sustained contact. Not a projectile. Like Star Wars, with the droids and frog people. Preferably big and heavy so it doesn't deflect, over."

"Roger, out."

He had his loader switch the radio back. He looked around. What did he have that was big and heavy? He stared down the line of his company. So big and heavy that it wouldn't deflect or get tossed around. What did his tank company have in its arsenal that would qualify, perhaps something made of extremely dense metals and weighed, say, seventy tons?

He switched to company net. "All Destroyer elements, this is Six. Volunteers to charge their position, over."

"Six, Red Four, say again, over?"

"All Destroyer elements, Six. The barrier cannot be shot down. In short, someone needs to ram it. I need a wing tank, over."

The net was silent for a solid minute. Minh wondered if he just made himself sound crazy. His mind raced with alternative plans, one of which included charging in alone, which he immediately threw away. Being swarmed was the last thing he wanted to do that day.

A click was suddenly heard over the radio as someone keyed. "Six, White Three. Uh, we can go, over."

Minh sighed softly. "White Three, Six, roger. Follow on our tank when we crest. Break. All other tracks: crest the berm and get ready to fire. Coax only near us. How copy, over?"

* * *

"So, _what the fuck_ are we doing?" Nash asked.

"You know how they have some magic shield around them?" Warren asked.

"Yeah."

"Ok, we're gonna hit it. With the tank. Really hard."

"Well, uh," Nash muttered. "That sounds retarded as fuck, but fuck it I guess."

Warren shrugged. "Well, commander's putting his ass on the line, so I'm gonna trust him on this. We're just winging him."

"Well, I feel a bit better about this I guess," Guererro said, opening the cover of his M240 to make sure the links were in place, before slamming it closed and racking the bolt. He climbed up, sitting on the edge of his hatch, and opened his sponson box, pulling out his rifle. With the damn M320 grenade launcher on it, it couldn't fit in the designated spot inside his station. He inserted a magazine and racked the bolt, savoring the sound of the perfectly lubricated mechanism. No gunk, no slop. Just finely tuned machinery could be heard through his CVC's ear muffs.

"Get your Nine ready too," Warren advised. "Just in case."

Guererro nodded and squatted down inside the turret. He reached into the box by his feet and pulled out the Blackhawk holster he was issued, which he had taken the quick release off of and screwed it directly on, giving it a slimmer profile. He attached it to a couple of quick-snaps on his belt and buckled the leg straps. Finally, as with his rifle, he inserted the magazine and pulled the slide before replacing it back into his holster.

"Roll out!" Warren declared as he watched the commander's tank pitch itself over the edge of the berm. The rest of the company crested as well, but stayed in place, picking up fields of fire.

The ride to the enemy formation took longer than it truly did, but it ended before Guererro and Warren realized it. The heads of the enemy slowly turned towards them, although they did not flinch, confident in the power of their magicians. The tank commander and loader stared them down, hands squeezing the handles of their mounted weapons, but they did not fire.

Captain Minh's and Warren's tanks both stopped a dozen meters away from the edge of the barrier, which put off a subtle shimmering effect on the objects within its perimeter now that they got a close look at it. One interesting detail, he noticed, was the movement of the grass as it interacted with the barrier, flowing this way and that as if being hit by winds from all sides. "Alright, Warren," the commander keyed over the radio.

"Yes, sir, got it," Warren replied, letting his thumb off the transmit button once he finished. "Moreno, don't fucking ram it. Give it a love tap."

"Roger."

The tracks creaked and the tank moved slowly, but they other three crewmembers braced themselves as best the could within their stations regardless. Nash cursed as he felt the engine switch gears as the speed increased. "Watch the fuc-SHIT!"

The tank's front end slammed into the barrier before he could finish. Instead of blasting through it stopped dead, even pitching upwards slightly as the sprockets forced the tank forwards.

"Watch the fuckin' gears!" Nash yelled. " _Fuck_."

"Keep up the pressure, man!" Guererro said. "Keep it up."

Moreno followed the order. They were so close at that point that even he could see the increasingly worried expressions on the faces of the raiders inside the barrier. After a full minute, as doubts towards the plan began to realize within Warren's mind, the barrier popped like an overpressurized balloon. Magical energy surged back into its source in the middle, the frail, feathered woman holding a wooden staff, and immediately blew back outwards in a brilliant flash of light. It did no harm to her or the men around her, but left them stunned and unable to act decisively. Warren did not notice, focused on his goal, but this had a chain reaction throughout the entire enemy army, their barriers popping in similar manners.

"Go!" Warren yelled. "Forward, go!"

Moreno did not need commands, as the momentum and built up energy in the power pack's drives propelled the tank forwards. He pressed on the brakes slightly to control the movement, before turning the throttle slightly to pick up the desired speed. The formation was made up of several elements formed into blocks with the command staff and magician in the middle, and Moreno headed straight through between the human walls.

"Stop!" Warren yelled. "Gonzo, go!"

As soon as the tank stopped, slowing rather nicely for a new driver, Guererro thought, he hopped down off the turret onto the front slope, firing at enemy swordsmen as he went. His momentum carried him off the edge of the hull and he landed softly, retaining his aim. Warren took aim with his M4, putting single rounds into the chests and abdomens of swordsmen that were too close to Guererro for comfort.

He looked around the flanks of the vehicle but most were awestruck, staring agape at the metal behemoth in front of them which had crushed their supposedly impenetrable barrier through sheer weight.

Guererro reached the magician in a few long strides, who was on her knees, strenuously panting before looking up wide-eyed as she heard the sounds of his pistol. She weakly raised her hands in what was either a feeble attempt at defense or surrender, Guererro couldn't tell, but she quickly received a swift fist to the cheekbone for her trouble. He looped his arm under her shoulders and manhandled her back to the tank. She was rather light, he thought, as he quickly holstered his pistol and tossed her onto the front slope. A round snapped over his head as Warren shot another swordsman who tried to go for him, but most were still frozen at place, either because of the tank or their brethren's chests spontaneously spewing blood onto their faces.

He hopped up ass-first onto the front slope and frantically motioning for Moreno to back up. He managed to lodge his foot behind one of the headlight frames before the brake released, kicking with pent up energy as the drives were finally allowed to turn. His other hand grabbed the opposite headlight and his body laid on the magician to keep her in place. The command tank opened up all three of its machine guns from a few yards away at the enemy attempting to give chase. He could feel the M2 firing through his CVC. As they sped away in full reverse, he watched as a twelve-tank volley demolished three entire infantry blocks.

* * *

Wooding watched as the tankers actually did it. The barrier was down and the magician, which Leilei had informed him belonged to the environmental magic-adept Siren species, was captured, and the army outside the walls was reduced to tatters within seconds as the main guns began to let loose. He watched in the distance as the two companies of Bradleys began to encircle the Army, firing their autocannons sporadically, herding the enemy into one area.

Inside the walls, he heard the sounds of automatic grenade launchers and rifles as a company of Marines and AAVs pushed through the city sector ransacked by enemy troops, clearing them from houses, rooms, and storefronts, before finally corralling them into the plaza in front of the gate itself. The defeated raiders were soon surrounded by the Marine infantrymen who quickly stripped them of arms and armor, moving them into detainee sections.

The main body of troops outside had largely surrendered, aside from a few foolhardy troops that were cut down as soon as they made their moves. The Army infantrymen were attempting a similar process but the sheer size of the mass of men slowed the process considerably. The helicopters were long gone, off to refuel, but after their first run their assistance was hardly needed. Once the magical barrier was down there was no hope of the raiders versus a dozen tanks and dozens of Bradleys.

He was just to leave his perch to find the princess when she had bumped into him.

"Lieutenant," she greeted with a slight bow, "we have important things to discuss."

"I'm sure we do," he answered, returning the bow. Never hurts to be polite, his parents had always told him.

"Negotiations are to be held between Countess Formar and your nation's representatives. For your help, you and your team are invited to the dinner."

Wooding nodded his head in thanks. "Thank you, ma'am."

With a parting bow, she turned on her heels and headed towards the gate's ground level.

* * *

"Gentlemen," Guererro said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to speak, "I believe we finally have a proper name for this tank."

"What's that?" Moreno asked.

"Danger Zone."

Nash reached into his pocket for a cigarette of his own. "Fuck. Yes."

* * *

Sergeant Legett downed the rest of his energy drink. Lieutenant Allen was sitting atop his turret, CVC off at full volume to hear the radio without needing to wear it, and the Marines all around heard the sporadic reports of the battle.

"Gayest battle fucking _ever_ ," one of the grunts next to him complained.

"Shut up, Rigbey," another said. "No one's fault but your own you forgot pogey bait."

"Fuck you."

"Please," the second replied. "I'm lonely."

"Both of you shut your fuckin' asses," Legett said. "Spend _one_ fucking month in Iraq, and find out how nice a day off in the field is."

"Yo shit, wait!" Rigbey called. "Hey LT, you see that shit?"

"Yeah, dust cloud," Allen answered. He quickly put his CVC back on and hopped back down into the turret, powering up the systems. After a long minute he was able to turn the turret. He scooted over to the gunner's seat and zoomed in on the daysights before cursing under his breath.

The Imperial flag, and another with a prominent stylized rose, carried by armored horsemen. At the lead was a woman in decorated armor, long blonde hair swaying with the breeze.

Behind her were thousands in marching formation.

* * *

Remember, kids, smoking is cool. As fuck. But cancer isn't.

(This ad was not paid for by the Ad Council)

And _there we go_. Got this bitch done. Honestly, this was a kinda big chapter. I rushed it just to get it out. Lazy, but I'm about to go on leave and I sure as hell know I'm not spending time writing. I know I skipped out on the action of the Marines clearing the inside of the city, but this was long enough. Might put it in another interlude chapter.

Guys, calm down about the Empire's magic gun. They didn't suddenly invent them. It says earlier that they had prototypes, but just couldn't make it practical until they saw a rifle (to them, only a more advanced magic gun) in action and got a eureka moment out of it. They're not becoming a modern army in the space of a month.

Did the Empire have magic guns in the source material? No. But the Gate did not open in the US in the source either. I'm taking creative liberties to make the story less… dumb as shit from a military standpoint, and the fact that the Empire did not advance at all for the hundreds of years since they first settled (I read somewhere that Hardy opens the gate to Falmart on a whim, and the Empire is descended from a Roman legion or two, but I can't for the life of me find it) when things like magic exists is dumb as shit.

Let me write the story. Wait until I fuck up that you pull out the flags, instead of jumping the gun. And let's be real here. It's hard to weave a story worse than Gate. Its potential is what drew me in, not the execution.


	8. Aftermath

A/N: Sorry, guys, no excuse for the huge weight. Got back stateside, bunch of stuff happened, got lazy, and then got busy again. No real excuses, just laziness.

* * *

The captive sat on the grounf. She avoided any eye contact, staring instead at the dirt beneath her. She hadn't spoken a word since she had been captured, not that she would have been able to communicate anyway.

Guererro was sitting on the front slope. Moreno's CVC was sitting next to him, volume turned up and acting as a loudspeaker. On top of the turret was Nash, napping with a camelback as a pillow. From the CVC was constantly buzzing with information reports: enemy casualty updates, patrol check-ins, progress on sorting the captives, and everything else required for a reinforced battalion-sized element to operate effectively.

He leaned to either side slightly and stretched his back but made sure to keep his eyes on the captive. His hands idly ejected and inserted the magazine of his M9, making sure to stay clear of the safety and trigger as a round had been chambered should the magician try anything.

He heard sniffles.

"What the fuck, man."

She continued, and as he looked closer, teardrops fell to the floor, splashing and creating dark spots in the light film of dust.

"Shut up."

She defied his order, instead hiccuping and continued her crying.

"Shut the hell up!" Guererro yelled, smacking the turret screen near her for added effect.

"Yo, what the fuck, man?" Nash suddenly yelled, waking and turning to face the two.

"She's crying, man."

Nash shot him a quizzical look. "So?"

"She's crying like she's the fucking victim here!"

"What?" Nash asked, looking at Guererro as if he were crazy. "Who gives a fuck?"

"I don't want to fucking hear it, after what she fucking did, man," he continued, his voice quieting. He returned eye contact with an intense stare.

Nash spared a quick glance at the magician, who had backed herself up to the wall away from them but otherwise remained docile, before fixating himself back on his loader. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Have you heard the casualty reports?"

"No, I haven't."

"Of course you didn't," Guererro responded, leaning towards his gunner. "Of course you fucking didn't, you were sleeping like nothing happened! You didn't hear how many fucking civilians died because we had to get through the shield!"

"Alright, well what's yelling going to do to fix that?"

"You know what?" Guererro said, "Nothing. Fuckin' nothing."

Nash motioned him back into his seat. "Alright, now, sit _the hell_ down before everything gets stupid."

Guererro opened his mouth to speak, but kept quiet. He took another look towards the captive. It honestly wasn't worth getting worked up over, he thought, not really. He crossed his arms and leaned back a bit, drawing a deep breath and slowly releasing it.

How much longer would he have to stare at that damn thing?

* * *

"Sir," he said, passing his commanding officer. "Sir… sir, Sergeant Major, First Sergeant," he continued, catching up to his battalion and company leaders. As per brigade field standards he neither saluted nor stood at attention, instead looking as pleasant as he could manage with his hands clasped in front of him.

The fifth person there, besides him, was a shorter armored woman, bright red hair tied back into a bun, damaged plated armor covering most of her form, and hastily-applied bandages on most of the exposed skin. A specialist stood by her, presumably acting as a translator, as he couldn't guess to any other purpose for him to be there. "...Ma'am," he greeted.

She nodded in response, a slight smile on her lips. He deftly returned it before turning his head towards the man giving him a stare. "What did you need, Sergeant Major?"

"An invitation, Warren," the stout man answered, his Peruvian accent making itself obvious. He motioned with his hands towards the woman and continued, "We will be speaking with the city's leadership later tonight. Before that, a banquet as thanks for kicking ass. Your crew was specifically invited by the princess here because of that charge you did today."

"Oh," he stammered. "Uh, thank you, Sergeant Major."

"Don't thank me, thank her."

Warren turned to the woman and bowed his head for a second. "Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate our offer."

The soldier next to her spoke the translation and a warm smile grew on her lips as the words reached her. She spoke in her language and held out her hand, which Warren awkwardly grabbed. She shook it, surprising him for a second, but he figured she must have picked up the habit at some point since the two forces made contact.

"I look forward to seeing you there," the soldier translated.

He shot a look at the translator as he released the princess's hand. "Uh, how singular was that 'you?'"

"Very" he answered, suppressing a chuckle.

She spoke again, shaking the others' hands, and the soldier translated, "I will see all of you at the banquet. I will leave and get everything ready now."

With that, the Americans gave their departing words as she turned and walked back into the city with a limp that Warren could tell she was trying to disguise.

"What do you think, Warren?" Captain Minh asked.

"She seemed, well, charming."

"Ignore it, man," Minh advised, "It's politics. She's trying to win you over. Even if she was serious, she doesn't know you're aren't nobility."

"Nobility?"

The captain nodded. "She's a princess, Warren. And she probably just assumed you were because tanks are the showboats on the battlefield here."

"So she assumed I was important for being a damn tanker?"

"Cavalry," Minh said. "Cav used to be nobility in Europe, probably the same here."

Warren shrugged. "Makes sense, sir."

"Go back to your tank, Warren. Someone'll grab you. Clean yourselves up."

"Roger, sir," Warren said, turning around to begin the trek back to his vehicle.

* * *

"God dammit, Hardie, how long?" Staff Sergeant Therough yelled to his driver, who was in his seat monitoring the radio. He looked back to the armored woman on the horse. She was glaring daggers at him. Davis was pacing in front of her, trying in vain to calm her with broken phrases of the native language. She couldn't seem to decide between ignoring him and shutting him up with quick snaps in her language.

"Five minutes, staff sergeant!" Hardie answered.

Therough rubbed the grime from his eyes. He always knew to add at least ten minutes to given times. The yelling had got louder and, as he heard a scrape of metal and a harsh yell from the lieutenant, he unslung his rifle and ran up to the two. Davis' hand had snapped to the handle of his M9 and the men around him had shouldered their rifles at the woman and the mounted women around her.

"Pacif wo!" he yelled, speaking in the native language. "Pacif wo!" _Calm yourselves_!

The women turned their eyes to him and slightly eased themselves, but did not lower their weapons.

The blonde woman said something to him, but it was utterly intelligible. Translating _from_ their language was an impossible task for him, let alone conversationally.

"Ni intelli vesta lingu," he replied. _I do not understand your language_.

She huffed in frustration and lowered her sword, but did not sheath it. She gave a command to the other riders who did similar, retaining a defensive formation, but calming their visible aggression. The Marines followed suit, seeking to deescalate the situation.

He started flipping through pages looking for the words he needed. The language did not have independent pronouns like English did, instead using prefixes attached to nouns and verbs, so a simple word-for-word translation would be an utter butchering of their language, but it was all he could manage. She should understand the base idea from base words and disconnected pronouns.

He slowly walked up to her, holding up his translation book. "Lingu tranlit liber." _Language translation book_.

She gently picked the book from his fingers, mindful not to make sudden moves to rile up his men again. "Eh-n-glee-s trans-lah-teye-on book," she read aloud, trying to make sense of the small book. She began flipping through the pages, trying to get a sense of the Marines' language.

"Well they use our alphabet," Davis observed. "Somehow."

"LT!" Therough heard behind him, coming from the LAV. "Sir, we got Brutal Six!"

Davis took off at a run back to the armored vehicle, leaving Therough to the forefront of the woman's attention.

"Uh, shit," he muttered as the eyes of the horsewomen all turned to him.

"Brutal Six, this is Arrow Three One, over," Davis said into the handset once his driver had handed him the device. He scooted his foot to the side, seating himself on the rim of his hatch while keeping an eye on the situation.

"Arrow Three One, this is Brutal Six. On my way, over."

His platoon sergeant had ordered the men to back up, trying to deescalate the confrontation. The lead horsewoman had began pacing her horse in front of her companions, eying the Marines. They stared back, but their weapons were relaxed in their arms rather than ready to aim and fire in an instant.

"Brutal Six, Arrow Three One, roger."

"Arrow Three One, Professional Six. Five mikes, out."

He threw the handset down. "Fuck!"

* * *

Warren came around from the side of the tank. He turned the corner of the turret to see Guererro sitting down, M9 in his hand, fingers idly feeling the nooks and crannies of the weapon. His helmet was off, hair damp from sweat and slicked down, its normally neat contours in a confused mess atop his skull. On an MRE box sat the captive, the name of which he had been told was 'siren,' sitting on her haunches, face buried into her folded arms.

"The fuck happened here?" Warren asked.

"Nothing," Guererro replied immediately, not taking his eyes off the captive. His hands had stopped feeling up the pistol, settling into a proper grip, but his wrist had relaxed and the weapon pointed down towards the floor.

Something is up, Warren thought. He hadn't seen his loader that serious since they had met. "Why is she still here?"

"Scouts are still sorting out the main army," Nash answered. He was propped up inside his station, head wedged between some cables and his display screen. "She's already secured so they said to just keep her."

"Well fuck us," Warren muttered. "I'm going to radio to the grunts in a second. But first, I hope you guys have clean uniforms in your packs. We have a dinner date."


	9. At the Ball

AN: The previous version of this chapter was, in short, terrible. It was rushed before we went out for field training. Well, I'm back out of it, and decided to make it a bit less shitty and substantial. Granted, I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but it's more the full chapter I intended to write.

* * *

"Sergeant Pence..."

She had just exited her bath, maids attending to her dress, as she addressed the American who was waiting outside her room behind a thin but closed door.

"What were those things?"

"You'll have to be more specific, sorry."

"Those huge tan things. The one that captured the magician."

"Ah, those," he said under his breath. "Tanks, ma'am. We call them tanks. Imagine a metal carriage that can withstand a dragon's fire from feet away, and can demolish a building with gigantic, exploding arrows."

"That's just impossible," she started, trying to remember what she saw. "How many of those does your nation have?"

"More than enough," he answered. "More than enough to sweep through the entire continent in a month's time."

* * *

The dinner was fully underway. Troop command and upwards from the squadron as well as the brigade commander had been invited, as well as their Marine counterparts, and were eagerly sampling the display laid out on the table. The two crews of tankers from Fourth Squadron, Fourth Cavalry Regiment were cleanly dressed considering the conditions. Each were given access to washrooms and had clean sets of uniforms on. The muted tones of the camouflage were a stark contrast to the extravagant clothing of the city's nobility.

For Sergeant Warren and his crew, however, they were sampling something else.

"So those snakes," Nash asked, moving his finger around near her head as a couple of the snakes that sprouted from her head followed his movement, "are they smart?"

The maid chuckled, her cute face blushing, and seeing that, Nash felt a hot flash smack him in the face. She was what, a Medusa?

He certainly wasn't interested in her, although she was interesting. She wasn't, he would say, hot, but she was certainly beautiful and adorable. Big, round eyes took in the sight of his uniform, taking it in with the utmost interest.

Her eyes settled on his weapon, his issued M9 holstered and tethered onto an old ALICE belt he had picked up from a surplus store for a small handful of dollars. Each of the soldiers in the room had their sidearms and a single magazine, albeit unloaded. She then moved her eyes upwards towards the rest of his uniform, especially eying the hourglass-looking patch on his left arm, and then the flag on his right.

She didn't respond to his question. There was also no interpreter nearby so she really couldn't and he didn't know what he was expecting when he spoke.

"Es colube," she said, patting one of the small things with the tip of her finger, which then nibbled on her fingertip with the soft nubs that were its teeth.

Well, he thought, she at least knew I was talking about her… hair?

On the other side of her head, Nash saw one of the other snakes bite at a nearby fly. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he liked it.

Across the hall, Guererro had the benefit of an interpreter. Around him were several of the demi-human maids, who seemed very interested in his words.

"So when it fires," he explained, using his hands to demonstrate his words, "the gun shoots back so fast it can break your bones. What I do is I take another projectile and load it in as fast as possible, which is usually five seconds."

"How heavy are they?" the cat girl maid asked.

"About fifty of our pounds," the tanker answered. "Our pounds are about one and a half times heavier, I think."

A series of 'oohs' came from the small group as they took in the information. They didn't know what he was talking about, but to Guererro they seemed impressed.

"Why do your boots have straps? Most of you others have laces," the bunny girl maid said.

"These are tanker boots. They're traditional for tankers, although some of us don't wear them."

"What is that symbol?" asked the sole human maid, who had previously introduced herself as Momu. She pointed at the small piece of embroidery on the left side of his chest.

"It's an airborne badge," he explained. "I was awarded this for completing a school for jumping out of airplanes, which are huge vehicles that fly."

With that, the maids' questions continued, and they only grew more and more interested in his word.

* * *

Steven Murillo eyed the soldier before him in the interrogation tent. There were few others in the room: a couple military police for security, an Army intelligence officer, and a Sergeant with a recording device and notebook. It had been months since entry to the gate, enough time for a dedicated student to grasp a solid understanding of the native tongue, and ample time for a civilian expert like himself to become rather fluent.

"You're an elf," he observed.

"That I am," the captive replied. He spoke with a clean accent, light in tone but every syllable deliberate. He sat shackled to the table, although his hands were not fixed in place, instead resting comfortably on the surface in front of him.

"I had thought the Empire was human centric," he said. "But you were in charge of the force in siege of Italica?"

"Second in command, but I took over when Lord Falmor was killed in battle."

"Could you explain your background then, and why you are in such a position of power?"

"I do not know why you focus on my past so much. I am an Imperial officer. The Legions make no distinction between native and foreign-born. Although my province was only formally annexed a hundred and fifty years ago, my great grandfather was one of the first to earn citizenship by joining the auxiliaries, and my grandfather on have kept the tradition alive through the Legion. My family and region are honored throughout the capital for our service."

"So the Empire is rather pragmatic in its recruiting practices."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "The elf tribes in the deeper forests kill outsiders on sight, and many other groups I do not know about are equally barbaric. The Empire swells with those caught at their spears."

Stevens scratched his chin in thought. "You said great grandfather. How long lived are elves?"

"Average age is around two hundred fifty, but our development isn't much longer than that of humans despite our longevity. Many families start in their late twenties, although we do stay physically and mentally young until a hundred or so years of age."

Steven took a sip from a canteen he had sitting in front of him. "Ok, new topic. For what reason did you attack Italica?"

"In short, we were sent to die. We were on standby to the east of Italica to back up the expedition through Alnus Hill. We were given information that it had been repulsed and were to meet with a second Imperial army, which never arrived."

Steven studied the elf, looking for signs of deceit. As far as he could tell, there were none, but he was also a different species. He continued, regardless. "So you were betrayed because reinforcements never arrived?"

"No," the elf said, "but because after our formation was routed by your men, the Italican garrison attacked us as if we were enemies. I was able to contact sources inside the royal mansion that they were led to believe by men posing as our survivors, that we had killed Count Formar ourselves during the battle in an act of mutiny, and were attempting to capture the city in his absence."

The elf chuckled. "We have a word for that in the elven language, but it does not translate."

Steven thought for a moment. "Self fulfilling prophecy?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Close but not exact."

"So did you not try to explain the situation?"

"I did not learn of this deceit until three days into the siege," the elf answered. He paused, taking a sip of water from a paper cup of water in front of him. "I had to sneak men into the city to meet with contacts. By then, they had killed too many of my men, and we had killed too many of theirs. I am not sure how it may work in your army, but leaders are not just positions. They are roles. I care for my men as dearly as if they were family. A betrayal of them is a knife to my own back."

Steven nodded. To his left, the sergeant was writing down notes. To his right, the Army officer stepped forwards.

"Could you explain why you would have been betrayed?"

"Politics, as always," came the reply. "My scouts had gathered no sign of the Alnus garrison or immediate relief forces aside from patches of corpses your men had not cleaned up yet, so I concluded their deaths. But they were Legionaries, true Imperial citizens, with auxiliary support. Lord Formal and I were Imperial citizens but in charge of allied armies."

He paused. Another sip of water.

"The balance of power was shifted forever simply by your arrival, gentlemen. They needed to re-balance the scales."

Steven spoke up again. "You have been mentioning the Empire. What is the name of this Empire?"

"That is its name," the elf replied. " _The_ Empire. It is eternal and it is in solitude. A name is rather superfluous."

Steven mulled over the native language's actual words. Especially the word for 'Empire'.

 _Romis_.

* * *

The din of the party inside the hall penetrated the secure room in which Princess Pina co Lada and the young Countess Formal, as well as Colonel Fitzgerald and Ambassador Evans from the United States. The room was well-furnished with cushioned chairs along the walls, while in the center stood a small drink table, around which sat two flat couches. Tapestry lined the walls, embroidered with battle scenes and images of magnificent cities. To the side of the two pairs sat an interpreter, a short, bespectacled female Specialist.

A ceramic jar, finely decorated with images of what he assumed were the royal family, sat in the center of the table, and next to it were four bronze chalices filled with a weak wine. It was well after the battle; the American soldiers had set up aid stations for the wounded, and engineer assets were assisting with removing rubble from the city.

"I wish to start this meeting with my sincere gratitude for your assistance," Countess Formal said, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was young, extremely young, and he had been told she was in that position because of the death of her father when he led an attack against Alnus Hill.

After a second, he took her small hand and returned the shake. Now that I remember, shaking hands originated from Rome anyway, he thought. Whether or not they are somehow ancient Rome, they might as well copy courtesies as well as aesthetics.

"You speak English, ma'am?"

The interpreter turned to the Countess and translated, before receiving a response and saying, "No, I just wished to say it in your own language."

"I appreciate the effort," Fitzgerald returned.

"To business," she said. "If you don't know already, you would soon find out that we are vassals of the Empire. I want to clear the air on what your army will do to us with your victory."

Evans nodded, thinking for a moment. "It is true that we are currently at war, and that any aggression from your forces will not be tolerated. However, given the vassal position you are in, we will not pursue active hostilities. We will treat you as a separate entity from the Empire. The United States believe that a state of neutrality will prevent a lot of unnecessary bloodshed for both sides."

"So you will leave my city on its own?"

"That is true," Fitzgerald answered. "Occupying your city is not an objective necessary to defeating the Empire in this war." He, of course, didn't mention that the brigade hardly had the resources or manpower to accomplish such a task.

Evans cleared his throat. "Princess co Lada, since is the first time we are sitting for talk, I should also inform you that we are open to peace with the Empire itself, as well. The president and congress of the United States invites you to visit our nation so we can discuss a peaceful conflict resolution."

"Ma'am, believe me," Fitzgerald added, "this war will end at one point and in every scenario the United States maintains dominance. We are giving you a chance that the Empire could benefit from this as well."

Pina co Lada met the officer's eyes. "I accept the invitation."

* * *

The tank commander was surrounded by a group of young noblewomen, speaking so fast it was hard for the native interpreter to keep up.

"What is your country like?"

"What do you do?"

"Are you married?"

"What is a 'tank'?"

But one line of question kept popping up, as much as he tried to evade it.

"Mister Warren, do you have any war stories?"

Alright, he thought. They want a damn war story.

"Yes, actually, I do."

As the interpreter spoke the translation, the group grew quiet, hanging on his word.

"I was in a place called 'Iraq' inside a tank, like I am here. I was younger and driving, so I spent days on end looking out a small window the size of my hand. Nothing happened for weeks. Eventually, along a long and featureless road that we had driven down a dozen times before, the tank in front of me was blown into the air by an explosion."

He paused for a second, trying to remember the details he had pushed out of his mind for the past five years, trying to place them in order. Flashes flew by without forming coherent events.

"Enemy soldiers came out of hiding positions and shot special weapons designed to attack tanks. One got very lucky and managed to hit us in the right spot, and it damaged it so that the main weapon couldn't turn. All I could hear was my best friend screaming. All I could smell was the smoke."

He stopped speaking for a second, coughing out the choking feeling he was getting in his throat.

"I was ordered to drive forwards and run some of them over with the tracks since we couldn't turn our main weapon. The tank in front that was blown into the air was able to shoot back, and the tanks behind me fired everything they had. We killed every single fighter that tried to kill us. We weren't attacked in that area again for months."

The young noblewomen around him were silent, staring at him with wide eyes. His blank face offered no further explanation. One eventually bowed and muttered something.

"Thank you for your conversation," the interpreter said as she awkwardly made off to another group in the ballroom. The others quickly following suite, muttering excuses to scamper away.

"What was that about, Sergeant?" Warren heard from behind him. There stood Moreno, idling rather awkwardly at a loose parade rest as he glanced around at the rest of the guests in the vast room.

"The reason I reclassed at first," Warren answered. "And also a lesson on why you shouldn't treat any enemy as a joke. I didn't mention to them, but my TC died from that RPG hit and my gunner was evac'd for shrapnel in his neck. The driver in the tank in front died from having his neck snapped during that explosion."

Moreno eyed him curiously. "You think we might lose then?"

He shook his head. "No, we'd wipe the floor with them any day. But we'd lose way more people than we have to if we don't take them seriously. Don't confuse uneducated for stupid. I can think of a dozen ways they could fuck us up with magic if we start acting like idiots."

* * *

"Alright, change of mission," the man said. They were in the ballroom in their conventional military dress, with unassuming insignia on their clothing. "Wooding, your team will be the Princess's liaisons. Follow her around. Play along. You're going to be her showpiece when she tries to convince her friends not to attack us."

"Roger, sir."

The senior officer leaned in closer. "You will be fully autonomous in this. _Do not_ fuck this up."

"Of course, sir."


	10. Culture Shock, Part 1

A/N: Retconned a few things, most notably the tankers' unit and the rank of Wooding to Captain. I've researched Army SF a bit more and realized, for one, team leaders are Captains, not Lieutenants. Two, the general structure of a team which I will take note of as I continue writing.

Back to the unit, I've been thinking that realistically, a full-on armor battalion is just not going to happen. Enough Bradleys or Strykers are not going to get across the gate in a timely manner _and work properly_. Maintenance is a huge issue in the mechanized world. As well, mechanization isn't really necessary to fight formations of swordsmen. In keeping with 7ID tradition, they are light infantry. The only deviance is the armored reconnaissance squadrons that a heavy brigade would have, fulfilling all the heavy vehicle impact that could be needed both Bradley and Abrams-wise (and they would have plenty of Humvees anyway). The other battalions are mostly Humvee-mounted light infantry, whose M2's, M240's, and Mk. 19's are more than enough and can take advantage of greater mobility and less/cheaper maintenance.

* * *

It was a couple days' journey from Italica to Alnus hill on horseback, and Princess Pina co Lada was prepared for such. The Americans had, however, given her a ride in what they called a "Humvee" which cut down travel time to hours. She had never traveled so fast before, and she looked with wonder as the landscape zoomed past her.

She had idly reminisced on the public celebrations earlier that day. Through the cheering crowds and under the handkerchiefs thrown by the grateful townspeople, the American army had marched in a parade through the Italican streets. They were in perfect form, like any disciplined force, and had broken step as they maneuvered through the streets, the cheering of the crowd too deafening to relay any verbal commands. They had each followed the man in front and smiled and waved at the nearby townsfolk they had saved.

There were various flags among them, which they called 'guidons,' each leading small blocks of men. A portion of the men involved wore a very green and black uniform which, as she viewed more carefully, was in fact a series of tiny squares, and the guidons they carried were red with gold lettering, as well as a gold symbol she couldn't make out. The other groups following behind, their uniforms more brown and green splotches, had guidons of red and white. They were led by a larger red/white guidon, which had a coat of arms comprised of an eagle and decorated shield. Underneath it was a lettered scroll she could not read.

The most impressive, she had felt, was the massive flag leading all of them, bordered by gold threads. One corner was blue with a field of white stars on it, and the rest of the flag composed of red and white stripes. She had no idea of its symbolism, and would have to ask later.

Down below from her perch in the manor, the crowds were less individual people and more a solid mass. Next to her, the young Countess had smiled weakly as she overlooked her city. As she studied the young girl closely, she noticed tears forming in her eyes. Her blushed face was hidden behind her hair, but was soon revealed as she turned towards the Princess.

"I'm just so glad this many are left to celebrate."

A large explosion snapped her back to the present. She nearly jumped out of her seat as the sound almost literally shook her, drawing sly grins from the other passengers, unbeknownst to her. "What was that!?" she asked, frantically looking out of the windows. Were they under attack again?

One of the passengers pointed to her left, designating an area off the side of the hill, a few hundred yards off from the edge of the road, down a slight incline. It looked like a massive archery range to her, only a mile and a half long, ending in a gigantic hill which she could not tell was natural or artificial. There, at the close end, were more tanks. Just how many of those things did America have? They were obviously reinforcements; they were green, black, and brown. The tanks that defended Italica were tan.

They shot with supreme accuracy. Imperial artillery was an area weapon, with accuracy impossible to rely on, instead fired en masse in order to disrupt enemy formations than destroy specific targets. The American tanks, however, had hit exact targets at the edge of her vision. They brought back images from the previous battle, where the tanks had wrought absolute carnage upon the raiders. And those projectiles, as Captain Wooding had told her, were simply training versions, just cheap lumps of steel and concrete shot at incredible speeds. She shuddered to imagine what the proper ones they used for war with comparable enemies were like.

As she looked around, she had noticed that on either side of the convoy rolled the tanks that were present at the battle. They must be the flank guard, she thought. She noticed the closest one to her position had the red and white guidon flying proud atop the top of the steel beast. Its predatory head swiveled slowly but purposefully from side to side and looking for anyone foolish enough to attack. On the sides of its face was a depiction of a hooded skeleton's face. As eerie as it looked, the meaning was lost across cultural lines.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

The princess turned towards the owner of the voice. Rory the demigoddess sat in the other rear passenger seat, cross-legged with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her head was cocked to the side as she gave the princess a piercing look, a sly grin creeping across her face.

"I had hoped to adopt a few of them as apostles."

Pina sighed before she answered. "They have their own god, your holiness. They are not like the Empire. They flatly reject any god but their own. They mostly believe in only one."

The demigoddess chuckled. "Then they better get used to having their ideas challenged, at least in this world."

* * *

"Smash."

"Smash."

"Pass."

"Sma- wait, what the fuck, dude? You gay or somethin'?"

Lance Corporal Rigbey looked back at the few other members of the platoon that had joined him underneath the roof of the particle board shack. The group of people way above the Marines' pay grades were on the main trail from the motorpool to the Army brigade's headquarters. Foreign nationals were being escorted along with the 'big officers' in the Army. A group of half a dozen plain-clothed individuals with short carbines and low-profile plate carriers were covering the flanks of the VIP's, giving themselves away quite obviously to the Marines as to who they were.

"Nah," Rigbey answered. "There's another chick. I saw her at the checkpoint."

"I wasn't at the checkpoint," Corporal Callaghan replied. He raised a water bottle to his lips and let another glob of spit slip into the container. "I think I know who you're talking about though."

A second group came around the corner of a tent, again escorted by Special Forces personnel, and as the woman in question came into view, the Marines aside from Rigbey had to consciously keep their jaws from dropping.

Callaghan spit again into his bottle. "You know, Rig, you don't have to choose just one."

"Yo, guys, I'm back," Private First Class Childs said from behind the small group, holding out a small stack of dip cans and cigarette packs.

"That was fast," one of the Marines noted.

Childs shrugged his shoulders. "They brought in a new trailer PX for the natives."

"Really? The fuck?" one of the Marines complained.

"Just for them?" another said.

"Nah, it's actually better. The old one is military only now so they don't run out of stock in hour after each shipment."

"Yeah, I guess so," Callaghan said. That did make sense, he thought to himself. Before they left on the mission, the refugee workers would buy up whatever they could just to bring back to their village, leaving everything from shelves of snacks to energy drinks to, most importantly, tobacco empty for the people the base was actually for.

He gave Childs the money he owed, and put one of the cans into his cargo pocket.

The layout of the American fort was just like any Imperial field fort, the princess noted. The outer walls were laid out exactly as she had seen the Legions construct them, and everything was ordered in neat, evenly spaced rows. This was the military section of their fort; on the way in she had seen a smaller portion occupied by not only American tents, but shoddy native constructions as well that were patrolled by small teams of soldiers.

The American military tents were large and tan, seemingly for an entire centy rather than a contube. The half-cylindrical shapes had doors with a small portal at the end and were stenciled with writing above the openings. Dotted around the fort, as well, were chest-high white boxes with large poles sticking out of the top of them, although she couldn't guess what they were for.

They had finally reached the tent at the end of the road. There were others next to it in the row, presumably for the rest of the Americans' command element, but the center one had a seemingly fifty foot flagpole near the door, atop which hung a navy blue and red flag, divided down the middle. In the center was a circular hourglass-looking shape with another number or letter beneath it. One of the civilian-clothed guards went up to the door, opening it for the group to walk in.

The cold air hit her like a smack to the face.

"Why is it so cold in… here," she ended up mumbling. The sight of the interior was utterly alien to her. Instead of a large, spacious room reserved for the comfort of the Camp Prefect and his servants, it was instead a cramped bureaucratic office. Thin, gray walls with parchment pinned to the sides formed small offices, with shelves and desks fit into whatever space the occupants could find. Soldiers of different shapes, sizes, and colors, to include women, scurried around carrying bundles of recorded information or sat at flimsy desks in front of magic glass frames.

"Ma'am," Colonel Fitzgerald said, grabbing her attention. "Please follow me to my office."

Pina nodded in agreement, before holding up her hand to Bozes to stay put.

The office was half way down the tent, sealed by a door made of the same fuzzy material as the walls. Pinned next to it, she noticed, were several signs of various bright and dull colors, one of which was a series of pictures of types of spectacles. She couldn't hazard a guess as to what that sign was for.

"Glad you agreed to come, Princess Co Lada," the colonel said as he opened his door, directing her to a padded seat in front of his desk. "I'm sorry we couldn't find a more comfortable spot to talk, but this is what we have on this side of the Gate."

"The pleasure is mine," the princess answered. She envied the man behind his desk. She was in her battle armor, still. While it was designed to look good as well as protect, it certainly wasn't designed for comfort. The Americans, meanwhile, go into battle wearing nothing more than colored cloth!

"I hope by coming to Alnus Hill, you agree to meet with my government and discuss peace terms."

"Of course," she agreed. "Peace is a preferable option to both our nations,"

Especially ours, she thought to herself. She'd seen what they did to nearly an entire Imperial legion in a matter of minutes, albeit a rogue and beaten down one.

"What we have planned is to cross through the Gate right after dinner time. We will come into the city of Los Angeles and head straight to an airport. From there we will fly directly to our capital of Washington DC and we will meet with a Congressional committee. We will fly back to Los Angeles and come back here."

Fly? she thought. They must utilize dragons or such creatures for mass transportation then. They must be incredibly rich, although it was evident considering their technological superiority.

"That sounds acceptable to me, Colonel," she said. "Who all else will be coming?"

Fitzgerald peeked at his small pocket book before answering. "Assuming everyone agrees, besides yourself and Miss Bozes, it will be Ambassador Evans, who was with us at the castle ball. The Special Forces team that has been accompanying us will continue to escort us. Village representatives Leilei La Leina and Miss Tuuka have also been invited for civilian insight, as well as Miss Rory. A few soldiers and Marines will also be brought along to give personal, ground-level testimony."

* * *

"So."

"Yeah."

"The fuck's up with your boots?" The two groups of tankers stared each other off. One group, clad in brown-green digital camouflage with pointed-crown covers, were in a small semi-circle. The other group walking up were wearing more traditional splotches and had rounder caps on their heads, save for one with the older blue-gray digital uniform. Both groups had a small camouflaged pack for each member.

Guererro looked down at his boots. They looked fine to him, if a blackened from recent work on his tank's power pack. "What?"

"What you got straps on 'em for?" the Marine tanker asked, pointing with his cigarette hand.

"Don't know how to tie knots." Guererro shrugged. "I guess Marines don't have tanker boots."

"Nah," one of the Marines said. Guererro could see the name "Hollin" on his chest. "We don't need special boots."

Nash shrugged. "Alright. Just a tradition thing, I guess not everyone has those."

Before a retort could be made audible another of the Marines spoke up. "So you guys are going back too?"

Warren nodded.

A voice from the side prompted the tankers to turn their heads towards the voice. Lieutenant Allen sauntered up to them, a few of his platoon's dismounts behind him. "Group, attention!" Warren called, saluting the officer, who smartly returned the gesture.

"Relax, guys," Allen responded. He cleared his throat and pulled out a small notebook. "Glad you're all here. Might as well start the brief early, so horseshoe around."

At his word, the men gathered in a semi-circle around him.

"Lieutenant Allen, OIC for this. We were picked for different reasons to go back stateside, but this isn't a fun trip. It'll be relaxed but we're still on duty, so don't be jackasses. Our primary goal is to give testimony, if anyone asks, at a committee hearing in Congress."

A few groans were audible at this statement, as well as a few muttered curses.

"You Army guys," he said, gesturing towards Warren's crew, "will be given a chance to go to your residences and grab your dress uniforms. Marines, for those in the barracks, your clothing boxes are being taken out of storage and sent here. Those married, your spouses have already been contacted about sending your things. For all of us, when we get our uniforms, we are being given a chance for last minute alterations at Pendleton. From there, we head to the airport and get to DC."

"Any questions?"

* * *

The visiting royalty were quiet as the Humvees rolled through the Gate. They stared out the windows of the vehicles, trying to comprehend the depthless yet infinite blackness that surrounded them. "You came to Falmart through here?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lieutenant Davis answered from the front passenger seat. He turned back to face the Princess and Bozes. "In fact, I led the way through. This place can get confusing if you don't know where you're going."

"What was it like?" Bozes asked.

Davis shrugged. "It was something else."

* * *

Sorry about the wait, but shit happens. Packed training schedule.

You may have realized I'm bad at characterizing. Well I do have some excuses. One, you already have the characterizations from the source material(s). Two, I'm not focusing on them as I'm not trying to just copy-paste in some American OC's into the original story. Three, I suck, straight up. Four, in a semi-realistic military operation, not everything will be in the hands of some douchebag 2LT with Ranger and SF tabs truckin' and fuckin' in the countryside. There's just too many characters that need to be involved for a coherent operation to happen.


	11. Culture Shock, Part 2

"It was something else."

The Princess didn't really understand his words, but she understood his tone. She herself understood things that could not be put into words. She kept quiet as the vehicle exited the foreign end of the Gate, and the light of the sun momentarily blinded her. As her vision returned, she was shocked by the alien architecture. Everything was made of red and brown bricks. Light poles lined the street, and rather than rocks and stone, the road was mostly flat and gray, with white lines and dashes separating it into sections.

Soldiers lined the roads, their odd black weapons slung across their chests, but these ones had an odd mixture of color to them. Many of them had a gray appearance to their clothing and made of tiny squares as the "Marines" she was acquainted with. The armor of them was nearly universally this color as well. It in form, however, was entirely familiar to her. They rarely looked inwards except in curiosity, but rather, as they moved farther and farther from the Gate and through a final checkpoint, turned their attention outwards towards the civilian crowds.

They turned one last corner and began moving up a massive ramp, and Pina's and Bozes' jaws fell slack. The Empire prided themselves on their architecture; massive aqueducts provided running water to every quarter of every city, and expansive roads connected them, allowing trade and information to flourish.

Immense lengths of floating roads reached as far as the eye could see, weaving through and around each other. Thousands of vehicles of varying size, shape, and color streamed along these roads at insane speeds she had not seen until the Americans had come through the Gate. In the distance behind her she saw impossible towers taller than even the Lucil Imperium, which signaled the harbor of the Imperial City from beyond the horizon.

Bozes blinked, trying to make sure her eyes were not lying. "Who owns these carriages on the roads here?"

"Everyone," Captain Wooding answered from the front right seat. "Almost every family in America has at least one. We call them 'cars' by the way."

The Rose Knight stayed silent.

"What is your music like?" the captain asked.

"Music?" Pina repeated, thinking to herself. After a second her mental faculties returned. "It's very beautiful and calm. Mostly stringed instruments, although brass and wind have become popular lately."

"Interesting. I'd love to hear some when we return." he replied. "Would you like to hear ours?"

"I would, but how would this happen?"

"Like this" Wooding said, pulling a small glass rectangle from his pocket. As both Imperials' eyes opened widely in surprise, the rectangle lit up into bright colors which changed shape at the swipe of the American's fingers. At the final press of a small triangle on the surface, music began to play, strings that were manipulated by a bow rather than plucked like was popular in the Empire. "The composer's name is Beethoven. He was alive a few hundred years ago and is considered one of the best composers in history."

"He is from America too?"

"No, a country called Germany. It's on the other side of the ocean."

Pina didn't want to think on the phrase 'other side of the ocean.' She was having a hard enough time coming to terms with the ground beneath her.

"Now, there's a huge variety of music. This is called Classical. It would take all day just to get a feel of every type of music just in America."

"Will there be time for that?" the princess asked. She was genuinely intrigued. Commonality was one way to bring cultures together, and if she enjoyed their music then perhaps some Senators would too.

"Yes, at the hotel in the capital. But first we need to fly there."

"Fly? As in, on mounts?"

"That's one way to put it," the soldier replied vaguely. "Well if you look to the right, we're coming up on it now."

She did so, taking in the sight of an enormous flat field with a myriad of markings, flags, and arrows erected throughout.

"Think of it like a boat, but a mile in the air."

She saw a long cylinder resting on a set of wheels, surrounded by smaller vehicles, one of which was connected by a long, black hose. From the sides in the middle of it was a pair of huge steel wings. In the back were smaller ones and what looked like a small sail. Between the wings and the sail were two… _things_ she couldn't quite decide what were for. Near the front was a door with a staircase leading to it from the ground.

"It is called an _airplane_ ," Wooding explained, borrowing his language's terms for hers. "Those jar-looking things are called _jet engines_. They suck in air, compress it, and shoot it out the back at a very high pressure. It pushes the plane forwards, and the wings then let it lift up into the air."

"It's impossible," she said, "but really, everything I've seen today is impossible."

The Humvee stopped at a section of fence which, rather than iron bars, was made from lengths of bent wires, topped by thinner wire covered in tiny blades. A gate opened and, watched by a handful of armed personnel, some of whom she guessed were the civilian guards of this place, the convoy of vehicles continued. They finally stopped by the plane and everyone began exiting their vehicles. Lieutenant Davis and Captain Wooding exited first, opening the doors for the two Rose Knights.

"I advise trying to get some sleep, by the way," Wooding said. It will be a couple hours and it's better to be fresh when you get to a new time zone."

"Time zone?" Bozes asked as she was guided to the stairs.

"Yes, ma'am," Davis said. "America stretches across time zones. We standardized time across the world so that the position of the sun and the clock made sense, but you could still know what it was anywhere in the world."

"How many 'time zones' does America cover?"

"The mainland is four, I think. A total of four hours difference between coasts, I think."

"How far away is that?" Pina asked.

"I don't know about your mile, but a couple thousand or so," Wooding answered.

"Impossible," Pina muttered under her breath.

* * *

Ryan Warren was nearly toppled by his wife as she threw herself at him, squeezing him tight against her body and covering his face with kisses. She eventually let go as their son ran up to them, who was promptly picked up by the old soldier before receiving a kiss of his own.

"I missed you, Mike," he said.

"Missed you too, Dad," the boy answered.

Diane Warren rubbed her husband's shoulder and lead him towards their front door. "How long are you here, hon?"

"Barely overnight," he answered. "Just long enough to say 'hi' and grab my dress blues."

He turned towards his son. "How's school going?"

"Fine," he answered, curtly. He always answered questions like that, especially in regards to school. Ryan had to ask the right questions if he wanted more, not too vague and not too specific.

"What's this I hear about you having a little girlfriend?" Ryan teased, allowing himself a small grin.

"Nothing," his son answered. "We just ride the bus together, so we talk a lot."

As his wife chuckled, Ryan experienced a sharp pain in his chest. He was taking that away. As with all military families, sacrifices were being made by everyone, whether they signed papers or not. At the very least, he told himself, the kid still had plenty of time ahead of him. Ryan had met Diane in his mid twenties, after all, in town outside Fort Carson, Colorado. While he wouldn't call it a strip club, it was a club and a lot of girls stripped in it. At the very least when he first talked to her, she still had her shirt on.

"Sorry, Mike, but you'll have to say bye pretty soon to everyone. We're moving closer to Grandma's house."

"Ok," his son answered, looking unfocused for a second.

"You'll be alright."

* * *

"Fuck, man, what the hell happened to our shit?" Ammons asked, holding up his dark black dress coat in disgust. At least none of the decorations had been damaged, he thought to himself. "I swear to God I put these paper flat in here."

Rigbey sighed. "Because civilians don't give a God damn fuck about God damn shit, dude. 'Oh, these guys spend hundreds on their shit and get anal raped whenever there's a fucking hair on their collar?'" he mocked before making a lewd gesture with his free hand to his crotch. "I guess I'll fuckin' throw it in the fuckin' truck."

"You guys got your dresses back or what?" a new voice said from behind them.

"We're good, Sergeant," Rigbey answered. "Just a bit roughed up from storage, is all."

"I don't know what you're bitching about," another voice said. "My shit's good."

"Yeah, no one cares, Doc," Ammons replied.

"Go away and let me sulk, Emerson," Rigbey said.

Sergeant Legett sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to let the annoyances of his eccentric team slide. "I honestly don't give half a rat's ass about your bullshit right now," he explained. "We're not flying in our blues. We're catching an Air Force flight and we'll have an opportunity to iron and fly tape them later."

"Aye, Sergeant," the two Marine scouts said in unison.

"Now, the chow hall closes at thirteen. Get some food while you can."

* * *

Corporal Nash looked around the squad bay with a depressed look on his face.

"What's up, man?" Guererro asked, coming up to his friend.

"We're in California, man. Where am I gonna keep my guns?"

"Man, you're always talking about guns and shit."

"Bullshit, like when?"

"Yesterday you were telling me about an AR-15 deal in your email."

"That was one time. Other than that it's been a while," Nash retorted to Guererro's skepticism.

"Man, I'm just happy we're out of that shithole."

Nash sighed. "I wish we were back in that shithole, Luis. Back here is just gonna be gay-as-fuck Garrison."

"Better than that Germany rotation, dude."

"Yeah," he agreed, "that was some bullshit. But my point still stands, all tankers have to look forward to is Kuwait, Korea, or Germany rotations, which all end up being garrison-but-shittier. At least in the Gate we're doing something with our lives."

"Still reenlisted though," Guererro said, gently jabbing his gunner in the ribs.

"Motherfucker so did you!" Nash replied, slapping his hand away. "But this was supposed to be an actual deployment! Instead we're doing sixty days off-and-on in fuckin tents right outside LA!"

"But with internet, though."

"Yeah, I guess."

* * *

"Jenkins, that's me," the captain read off in the cramped cabin of the jet. He was an attachment from brigade, there to help everything transition smoothly. "Brown, Down, Legett," he read off, noting the individuals as they raised their hands from their seats.

"Ammons, Emerson, and that's the Marines. Tindal, Hollin, Johnson, White for the Marine tanks. Warren, Nash, Guererro, Moreno. Ok, that's my tankers," he finished, handing the checklist to his gunner. He turned to the pilot. "We're good, sir."

"Thanks, LT," the pilot answered before walking up to the seated soldiers and Marines. "Afternoon. Captain Wallace, I'll be flying. Flight brief is short, we're leaving here and landing in DC at around sixteen thirty. Not too much to worry about in safety, but if we start plummeting we're fucked," he joked, earning a few chuckles from one of the soldiers. "Safety pamphlets are in the seats. I was enlisted too so I personally know you guys want some sleep already. Enjoy your flight."

* * *

Leilei La Leina had never experienced something like this before. Everything was new to her, from the clothes, to the food, the transportation, even the smells. The airplane was incredibly interesting to her, especially how something so massive could fly without flapping its wings. Although one of the nonuniformed soldiers had tried to explain it to her, she barely understood the concept, and she was the only one in the group of five (to include the two Rose Knights, the elf, and the demigoddess) who was even catching on.

As the air craft rose, something she had never experienced assaulted her ears. Her ears felt like they were going to explode! She stuck her fingers in them, trying to assuage the pain, but to no avail. One of the soldiers leaned over to her.

"It's the pressure difference between your inner ear and the cabin, try yawning and moving your jaw around."

Amazingly, it worked almost instantly, although as the aircraft rose higher, she had to keep retrying. "Thanks," she whispered under her breath in English. They had impressed her by learning their language so quickly. The least she could do was to try to learn theirs, which she was steadily improving on. Her experience in reading magical texts from across all of Falmart, however, was no match for the diplomatic and political skills of Princess Co Lada and Madam Bozes.

Once the aircraft attained satisfactory altitude according to the pilot, as if on cue, almost all of the soldiers had fallen asleep in their seats. She didn't mind, however. She was satisfied with watching the landscape zoom by underneath her. On the way up she was absolutely blown away by the scale of the city of "Las Anjelis." It stretched beyond her eyesight. And as they rose higher, she could barely tear her eyes away from the clouds. She had, of course, never seen any up close, and how here they were flying through them! And to believe, they were just water vapor in the air!

The plane eventually began to lower in altitude, leading to another problem. This time, it felt like she was at the bottom of a small lake, with the water pressure pressing her ears into sharp pain. She took the advice from before and evened out the pressure once again. The soldiers had woken up and began to line up inside the isle. Everyone began moving out, and it seemed like each person had a couple assigned guards.

She had noticed the soldiers didn't put their armor back on once they retrieved their baggage. Probably to not cause a scene, she guessed, although she noticed a few had snuck weapons inside their belt lines, underneath their tops. Instead of uniforms they were wearing casual clothing. They whore khaki or blue-colored canvas pants, and either thin jackets or long-sleeved button shirts covered in grids and squares of different colors, which one of them had referred to as 'flannel.'

They eventually made it out of the 'airport' and into the streets, surrounded by dozens of curious onlookers. They were met with a couple of very long cars, which she could barely believe could even support themselves. The group split into two and as they drove away from the airport, she noticed they were surrounded by a bunch of black and white cars with numbers painted on the sides. There were red and blue glass boxes on top, and she wondered at their purpose.

"Police," her guard said. Tim, he said his name was. Tim Flynn. The other one following her was Joe Borges.

She looked out the window again and was struck this time not by the crowds and architecture, but the lack of it. There were plenty of people lining the streets, but where Italica was borderline claustrophobic, this place, the capital of the entire nation, was much more spread out. Everything was planned in advance, designed to make getting to and from one's business as fast and efficient as possible. What absolutely blew her mind was what Tim said was their final destination: a building straight from the Imperial City, with marble columns and a pointed roof above massive, bone-white steps. He called it the Capitol Building, home of Congress.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the huge wait. I got sent overseas again and I just got distracted with anime and video games in the gaps I found in a very high op tempo. Tanks are way more work than they have to be. Not to mention that the internet is pretty terrible here. This is an even longer wait because I had thought that I had this chapter nearly completed. I wrote this section (up to arriving at the airport) to pre-existing work and was about to publish… then I noticed that the pre-existing work was the last chapter I forgot I had published. So I updated it (re-read if you want) and began to expand the chapters (I'm not going to just release 1200 words as a chapter).

And I'll just spoil this here: There's no doujin buying or hot baths or SOF assault. Shit was dumb as hell in the source, and one of the aims of this is to fix the dumb as hell shit. 1) Why are other countries trying to straight abduct foreign emissaries? Do they really think they can do anything besides a hostage situation with the Empire, which would mean going public with their op and being widely condemned by the UN. 2) How incompetent do you have to be to fail to bring someone from point A to point B in one of your own, domestic cities? 3) That whole damn thing was the epitome of unprofessionalism in the main character(s). And yes being an idiot is his character trait, but this begs the questions of "Why was he sent to, let alone graduate, Japanese Ranger and SF schools" and "Why was he trusted with anything more than getting the S3 OIC's coffee?"


End file.
